not yet what we shall be
by airbefore
Summary: It floats across her mind, her history. Her past. The reasons why she is what she is and why she can no longer be who she was. Why Kate Beckett disappeared and Lone Vengeance was born. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual_._

For Reed

* * *

"_This life therefore is not righteousness, but growth in righteousness, not health, but healing, not being but becoming, not rest but exercise. We are not yet what we shall be, but we are growing toward it, the process is not yet finished, but it is going on, this is not the end, but it is the road. All does not yet gleam in glory, but all is being purified." _

_~ Martin Luther_

The night is clear and crisp, the brisk autumn wind whipping down the sidewalk, a discarded plastic bag swirling in its wake. A homeless man stares up at her with wide, glassy eyes, curling himself into a tight ball when she passes. Leaves crunch under the thick rubber soles of her boots as she hugs the shadows, alert and focused. Ready.

The cool air makes the suit stiff. Tighter than usual. It chafes and pulls, leaves her skin raw. She likes it. Likes the pain. It's a reminder. Tangible evidence of why she does what she does. Why she's chosen this path.

Why it's worth it.

She can feel the weight of the weapon strapped to her back, the blade perfectly weighted and balanced; an extension of her body. It was awkward at first, learning how to handle it, training her fingers into a tighter hold, adjusting to the feel of fabric against her skin rather than metal. She almost gave up on it after weeks of practice; blisters on her palms, deep slices on her limbs, jagged tears in all her clothes. She stuck with it, determined to master this just as she'd mastered every other challenge she'd set for herself in life. She likes the symbolism. The sharp edge of a knife put an end to her innocence. It's only right that she metes out her own brand of justice with the deft slice of a sword.

This is her life now. Living on the fringes, in the shadows. Hiding. She's heard herself called a hero but she knows the truth. She's a coward. Broken and beaten, she'd walked away. Ran away. Gave it all up for this. Dedicated herself to fighting an unwinnable war in a quest for peace she'll never find.

Headlights flash in her periphery and she rounds the corner quickly, pulling the cloak of darkness back around herself. She's playing with fire in her continued haunting of this neighborhood. The local patrol cops have almost caught her twice in the past month. Her knowledge of the area, the hidden alcoves and busted windows, will only take her so far. She needs to move on. Needs to work in another part of the city for a little while. Needs to let the whispers die down.

But she can't. For some reason, she can't make herself leave this place. This neighborhood - dangerous by day, damn near deadly at night - calls to her. The drugs and the theft, the gangs and the pimps; it's a never ending battle. She fights it night after night, never gaining any real ground. The tiny victories - a drug deal stopped, stolen goods destroyed - they all add up to nothing. Yet she stays.

Fights.

Skirting along the side of a truck, she listens. Waits. The patrol unit passes by and she runs to the other end of the alley, slipping through a gap in the chain link fence. The streets are quiet tonight. It makes her uneasy. Quiet is never good. Not in this neighborhood.

A muffled thump followed by a groan catches her attention. She stops. Listens. The sound of rubber scrabbling against concrete floats on the air and she takes off, heading back in the opposite direction. Rounding the corner, she slows, stares through the darkness, seeking. She spots them halfway up the block. Two gangbangers, white t-shirts cast yellow in the dank light of the street lamps, dance in a doorway, throwing punches and aiming kicks at a bulky body huddled against the wall.

Skipping along on the balls of her feet, she approaches silently, evaluating the scene. The bigger one, obviously the senior member, laughs as he directs the action, mocking the muffled grunts and groans of his victim.

"This woulda gone smoother for you if you'da just handed over the wallet," he says, his fist connecting with the man's ribs. "Cuz now we gotta fuck you up."

She skitters closer, her body flush with the rough brick façade of the building. The smaller one notices her first, directing his next punch at his partner's shoulder and nodding in her direction. She can see the hesitation on their faces, the internal debate about whether it's worth their pride to stay and fight. She knows her reputation. They think she's crazy. Reckless. More dangerous than they are.

They're right.

They make a run for it when she raises her right arm, reaching for the hilt of her sword. The leather wallet hits the concrete with a damp slap. The man pushes himself off the wall and groans, bending over to pick it up. He looks in her direction, eyes going wide. A cut on his forehead leaks blood across his cheek and she watches with mild fascination as it follows the curve of his jaw before dripping onto the collar of his white dress shirt.

"It's you," he says, grinning at her with a split lip. He starts to limp toward her, favoring his left leg. "I've been looking for you."

She watches him come closer. He's still grinning at her and she takes a step back, shrouding herself in shadows once more. "Get out."

The man stops, his mouth dropping open in surprise. "You're a woman. Lone Vengeance is _woman_. I never thought of that." He starts moving forward again, grimacing as he puts more weight on his bad leg. "That makes it even more awesome."

Fuck.

This is why she never speaks.

Turning on her heel, she sprints away. Dodging a stray cat, she darts into the next alley, hears him calling out after her.

"Wait! At least tell me your name!"

She doesn't have a name anymore.

* * *

_Thoughts?_


	2. Chapter 2

Holy shit, that was _awesome_.

Okay, not so much the getting his ass kicked part. But the rest of it. Awesome.

Richard Castle limps into his loft, careful to keep the noise to a minimum. The last thing he wants is right now is to wake his daughter, Alexis; the lecture he's going to get over breakfast in the morning already rings in his ears and he'd like to avoid it for as long as possible. But with the adrenaline pounding through his veins and the elation at having managed to find Lone Vengeance on the first try bubbling in his stomach, he's damn near giddy. It's taking every last remaining shred of restraint he possesses not to clap his hands and dance around like an overjoyed - and overgrown - child.

Quietly, he limps to into his bathroom and strips off his dirty and blood stained shirt. His ribs ache from the multiple blows and a knot the size of a golf ball protrudes from the back of his head but he can't really bring himself to care. He can smell the street on his skin, a putrid combination of dirt and garbage and the metallic tang of his own blood. A shower is in order but he can't waste time on that right now. He has to get to his computer. He has to get every last detail down before he forgets a single moment of it.

Rick pulls off the rest of his clothes, tossing them in the general direction of his hamper. They land in a pile on the floor and he shrugs before tugging on a fresh pair of boxers and undershirt; he'd decided on the way home that they were pretty much a lost cause anyway. He makes a mental note to toss them out before Alexis carries his dirty garments into the laundry room in her never ending quest to assuage her guilt over the fact that they have a housekeeper.

Grabbing the decanter of scotch and a heavy crystal tumbler, Rick plops down in his office chair, the leather sighing under his weight. His fingers tap anxiously on the desk, short nails clicking against the shining wood, as he waits for his laptop to come to life. The hard drive whirs softly, ambient noise that soothes his frayed nerves. He loves the sounds of his trade. The clack of the keys under his fingers, rapid fire when he's on a roll or slow and laborious when he's fighting with the words. The dull roar of the cooling fan, the random clicks and scrapes of various mechanical parts within the plastic case; the scratch of pen on paper when he edits, the whisper of the pages when he holds the final product in his hand.

With the scotch burning down his throat, Rick looks up, his gaze drifting over the wide bookcase that serves as the fourth wall of his office. Each cubby is packed to capacity with books and knickknacks, the various and sundry things he's collected over the years. Pictures of his daughter and mother dot the landscape, arranged next a shrunken head from his research trip to the Amazon or the delicate glass replica of the Eiffel Tower he purchased on his second honeymoon. His eyes slowly drift to the middle shelves, to the line of spines emblazoned with his name. Recessed lighting spotlights the books, bouncing off the glossy covers and casting long shadows over the floor. Rick sighs and leans back in the chair, wincing as his head lands on the padded bolster.

Twenty-two novels written and published over the course of fifteen years, nineteen of them bestsellers. His success has allowed him a life lived on his own terms; it's provided him with a comfortable home, the ability to spend as much time with his daughter as he wants, and access to just about anything his wild imagination can conjure.

But it's not enough anymore.

The guilt gnaws at him. He knows he has a good life. A better life than most people will ever have. He's talented, yes, but he's aware that a healthy dose of luck played a part in his success as a mystery novelist. His unsolicited manuscript landing on the right desk at the right time, a publisher willing to give him another chance after his first novel bombed spectacularly. He's grown a lot over the past fifteen years, learned to write for himself rather than the reader. He created a character he loved and built a franchise he's proud of. But now - Now he needs something different. Something new.

Something more.

The screeching voice of Gina, his publisher and second ex-wife, still echoes in his ears whenever he closes his eyes. Rick hadn't told her about his decision before he'd sent in the final chapters of Storm Fall, the book that is to become the last in his Derek Storm series. He's been avoiding her calls for days, listened to only the first of her many angry voicemails before deleting them all and shutting off his phone. He gets why she's upset. But he just can't write Derek anymore. The story has come to an end and he doesn't want to compromise the integrity of the series or the character by dragging it out any further. Did he have to kill his main character with a bullet to the head? Perhaps not. But the severity of it, the unequivocal finality of death, is what he needs in order to let go.

Months of being adrift, uninspired and uncreative, are what led him here. Sitting in his office with his muscles twitching violently as the adrenaline breaks down and fades away, his face raw and ribs aching. He'd heard about Lone Vengeance a few weeks before, just a tiny story on the late night news about a masked vigilante setting fire to a truck of stolen merchandise. After hours upon hours of research - reading the scant number of articles on the internet, wading through endless and increasingly insane theories on messages boards and fan sites, calling in a favor with an old drinking buddy in the NYPD to get a look at some of the police reports - he'd made the decision. Lone Vengeance was going to be the basis for his next character.

The concept of heroism has fascinated him since he was a child but the archetypal nature of the monomyth always left him feeling stymied. His characters need depth, conflict that goes beyond the superficial. The straight up and down story of good versus evil holds no draw for him. Shades of grey and moral ambiguity are far more interesting both to write and read and Rick has always endeavored to let the shadow of imperfection chase his characters, nipping at their heels. It's why the story of a vigilante appeals to him. The ethical and moral dilemmas inherent in such an act send his mind careening. He'd worked up a character sketch before he'd even made the conscious decision to write about Lone Vengeance, trying to capture all the questions and scenarios his imagination threw at him before they were replaced with even more.

Rick pulls up the document, scanning it quickly to reassess the material based on the information he'd obtained on that filthy patch of sidewalk a few hours before. The basic idea remains the same, the only real change being the gender. He feels like a sexist ass for never having entertained the possibility that Lone Vengeance could be a woman. It excites him; the possibilities expanding exponentially with the switch in gender. He'll have an opportunity to explore gender roles in a way Derek Storm never provided. He's written female characters, of course. Strong and confident women, intelligent and fierce. But they were never more than supporting players. Lovers, informants, victims. Writing a female lead will force him to dig deeper, to create a character that is more than just a poorly masked vehicle with which to live out all his CIA and James Bond fantasies.

Fingers flying over the keys, Rick empties his head onto the page. The sentences are short and colorless, a very basic recounting of the events of the evening; nothing more than a reference for when he starts plotting and writing. Scenes and words swirl through his mind, snatches of reality blended with his imagination, all coalescing into a story he cannot wait to tell.

But he has to know more first. He has to find her again, get her to talk to him. The story can be told without it but Rick knows it will be far better if he has the firsthand knowledge. It's how he works, submerging himself as much as he can into his subject. Be it the FBI, the mob, or the coroner's office, he pursues the facts and the atmosphere with an almost single minded focus. And this - this intrigues him far more than anything he's done before. _She_ intrigues him. He needs to find her.

He needs her story.

Rick saves the document, his fingers hitting the appropriate keys four consecutive times. It's an unconscious habit he developed long ago, the fear of losing his work nestled deeply within his psyche. Sighing, he closes the laptop and stands, his aching muscles protesting as he tries to stretch. Eyes burning with exhaustion, he stumbles blearily toward his bed. He barely gets the covers pulled down before he collapses onto the mattress, his head bouncing lightly off a pillow. Sleep comes quickly, the inevitable adrenaline crash hitting him hard and fast. His last thoughts are of her and he slips under with her voice, deep and smoky, echoing in his mind.

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated._


	3. Chapter 3

She bolts up the rickety fire escape, rust raining down with every step. The man wasn't in any condition to give chase and she's confident she's not being followed but her feet carry her home in record time. The sword catches on the window pane in her haste to get inside and she jerks back, the collar of her suit digging into her neck. Quickly, she closes the window and jogs down the empty hallway, boots rasping over the threadbare carpet.

Not willing to take the risk, she doesn't turn on the single lamp sitting in the middle of the floor, the naked bulb reflecting the meager light of the moon. Still panting, she slides the sword from her back and carefully nestles it in its box, the steel bright against the bed of black velvet. Her fingers tremble with adrenaline as she pulls off her mask and pries the sweaty leather of her suit from her upper body. Finally unencumbered, she takes her first full breath in twenty minutes.

Paranoia setting in, she spins in a circle, eyes darting around the mostly empty apartment. It's really nothing more than single room with a bare mattress shoved in one corner and an old brown couch, still smelling faintly of the dumpster she pulled it out of, pushed up against the opposite wall. She likes the starkness. Likes that she can stand in one spot and see the entirety of the room. No cubby holes or hiding places. It gives her at least some illusion of security.

Tugging off her boots, she places them neatly in the bottom of the closet, lining them up perfectly with the others; toes touching the wall and the heels exactly three inches apart. The suit comes off next and she carefully arranges it on a hanger before placing it on the thin wooden rod, the empty legs squeaking quietly against the suits on either side. Her sports bra and bike shorts are soaked with sweat and she really needs to shower and change but she's still restless, jittery. Wandering over to the tiny efficiency kitchen, she grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator, her heart finally starting to settle as she gulps from the cool bottle.

That was too close. Way too close. She hasn't had a scare like that in a couple of years. The myths surrounding her usually keep people away. The homeless cower in their cardboard lean-tos, the prostitutes cross to the other side of the street. Occasionally a younger gang member looking to prove themselves will provoke her but they learn very quickly to give her a wide berth. She prowls in the shadows, walking softly and hugging walls, to obscure herself from the odd pedestrian, unwilling to draw attention lest it bring along its friend trouble.

But tonight. That man. He said he had been looking for her. Questions flood her mind, and she sorts through them, eliminating the possibilities one at a time. She knows he wasn't a cop because she'd be in a holding cell by now if he was. And he's obviously not in any of the gangs, his clothes far too expensive and tailored . He wasn't Irish enough to be a Westie or Italian enough to be a Spillano. She whittles down the options, leaving herself with only two. Either he's part of it and has come to shut her down once and for all or he's just a lunatic looking for a cheap thrill. She's inclined to believe the latter because he asked for her name but -

He asked for her name.

She drops down heavily on the couch, the worn fabric rough against her bare back. The wooden frame shakes when she lets her head fall back, eyes staring blankly at the cracked and stained ceiling. It floats across her mind, her history. Her past. The reasons why she is what she is and why she can no longer be who she was. Why Kate Beckett disappeared and Lone Vengeance was born. She hates the name she's been given. It's ridiculous and childish but she has grown to see that it is also fitting. She is alone, both by necessity and desire. And it _is_ about vengeance. There is no nobility in what she does. She is not fighting the good fight; she is not a role model. She's not a superhero. She doesn't seek justice. She wants revenge.

* * *

Rick walks slowly down the darkened street, stepping carefully around a brown puddle he probably doesn't want to know the contents of. The night is muggy and his t-shirt sticks uncomfortably to his chest as he moves through the yellow glow of a street light. He's been walking around this same neighborhood every night for two weeks, desperate to run into her again. He always stops when he passes the alley where he saw her disappear, shifting from foot to foot as he stares into the darkness.

Crouching down, Rick smiles at the homeless man he's somehow befriended over the past thirteen nights. "Hey, Fred. Seen anything?"

"Nope," Fred says, dirty hand reaching out to take the bag Rick holds out for him. Pulling out a sandwich, he takes a sizable bite and mumbles around the food, crumbs falling into his scraggly beard, "Haven't seen nothing in days, boss. He needs to come on back, though. The bangers are gettin' bold."

Rick pats him on the shoulder, trying not to cringe when his hand comes away sticky. "Alright. I'm going to make another loop." He stands, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. "Keep an eye out for me?"

Fred reaches back into the bag and nods, his lips lifting to reveal a jagged smile when he pulls out a cellophane package of snack cakes. "Will do, boss," he says, waving a chocolate covered cake in the air. "Think you could maybe bring me a soda from the Korean grocery up the block when you pass back by?"

"Sure," Rick says, smiling as he turns to head back down the sidewalk. He keeps his eyes trained on the shadows, searching for any sign of movement that might be her. Frustration simmers inside his chest, sloshing up against his ribs with every step. It had been so easy to find her the first time and he was sure luck would fall his way again.

The thrill of the danger has started to wear thin and the images in his mind - gritty sidewalks and grimy alleys, shady characters with an air of danger and Hollywood dialogue - have been replaced with the reality of homeless and prostitutes, gunshots and drug deals. He knows he's being stupid wandering around unprotected night after night but he tells himself he's being safe, staying in relatively well lit areas with modest amounts of witnesses.

He can't keep this up much longer. Alexis isn't buying his excuses when he stumbles to the breakfast table with bleary eyes and the unmistakable smell of the street still clinging to his skin. She had rolled her eyes at his lame story about breaking up a fight on the subway as an explanation of his injuries and has been eyeing him suspiciously since. His daughter is incredibly mature and savvy and they both know that she'll figure out what he's up to sooner rather than later.

The bell over the door jangles as Rick steps into the convenience store, the florescent lights buzzing quietly. Heading straight for the cooler of soft drinks at the back of the store, he grabs a soda for Fred and a bottle of water for himself. The face of his watch catches his eye when he pulls out his wallet to pay. Two. Rick sighs. Another night wasted. Smiling at the cashier, he tucks his wallet away and heads for the exit.

Rick pushes back through the heavy security door, the shift between the refrigerated air of the store and the still humidity of the night sucking the air from his lungs. The plastic bottles in his hands begin sweating immediately and he switches them both to his left hand, the necks cradled in the groves of his fingers as he wipes his wet palm across his chest. Thoughts of a cool shower dancing in his head, he heads back toward the alley, deciding to take deliver the soda to Fred and then head home.

The blow takes him by complete surprise, an explosion of pain in his right knee that sends him crashing to the ground with a grunt, the bottles in his hands busting as they hit the sidewalk. He doesn't even have a chance to look for his attacker before they're on him again, fists and feet pummeling him with a rapidity that makes his head spin. Voices rage overhead but he can't make out the words through the ringing in his ears and the spikes of pain zipping through his nervous system. Rick tries to curl himself into a ball, make his large frame as small a target as possible. A vicious kick to his kidney makes him cry out, his voice strangled. He can taste blood and salt and the bile rising up from his stomach; can feel his muscles tearing and bones cracking.

The attack stops as suddenly as it started. A strong hand closes around his neck and Rick feels himself being rolled over, his head held only inches above the sidewalk. Blood runs down the back of his throat and he chokes, his tongue twisting violently in his mouth as he tries to gulp down air.

"You a cop?"

The voice is low and dark, a menacing growl that turns his blood cold. Rick opens his eyes, finds himself looking up into hard, cold eyes. The man glares down at him, gold tooth shining dimly in the sickly yellow light, a sadistic smile curling up the corners of his mouth. _Fuck_. He tries to form a response but his body won't cooperate, flames licking up the side of his face when he tried to move his jaw. A fist connects with his cheek, a vicious strike that vibrates down his spine.

"Are you a fucking cop?"

"No," Rick groans weakly. "Not a cop."

"Then who the fuck are you?"

"Nobody. I'm nobody."

The back of Rick's head connects with the sidewalk as the meaty fist descends on his face again. "The fuck you are. You been hanging around here for weeks. Scoping out my neighborhood and asking questions. Nobodies don't ask questions." The hand around his neck tightens and a knee presses into his chest. "Who you workin' for?"

Stars explode behind his eyes as panic floods his body, blood crashing painfully through the broken and damaged parts of him, and he reaches for the hand at his neck, fingers clawing ineffectually against the hard grip. Air. He needs air. His vision tunnels, a black haze flowing in from the edges as his brain starts to shut down. Back bowing, he fights against the darkness, desperate for reprieve.

A crash jerks him back to consciousness, his eyes spinning wildly around. The hand around his neck is gone in an instant and Rick collapses on the sidewalk, his shoulders splashing in the sticky puddle of Fred's busted soda bottle. Curses and grunts fill the air, the solid sound of fists against muscles punctuating the exclamations. He wants to roll out of the way, remove himself from the battleground, but his body won't respond to his brain's frantic pleas.

The night falls silent. All he can hear is his own ragged breathing and the ringing in his ears. He flinches when soft footsteps approach him, his body tensing in preparation for the next attack. Red fills his vision and it takes a few seconds to process what he's seeing.

"You," he slurs. He wants to say more, wants to make a pithy remark but the darkness is coming back, the heavy veil of black falling quickly over him. "I knew I'd find you again."

"You're a fucking idiot," she growls, her voice, deep and smooth, the last thing he hears before he passes out.

* * *

_Thanks for reading. Your comments and thoughts are always appreciated. _


	4. Chapter 4

Her suit squeaks as she kneels down, the damp air making the leather soft and heavy. Beckett leans over the unconscious man, torn between the desire to slap him awake so she can find out who he is or just leave him where he lays, spread eagle in the middle of the sidewalk. She scrutinizes his face, flipping quickly through assorted memories as she tries to work out whether or not she's seen him before. He looks vaguely familiar but nothing sparks. She rolls him over and reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. The worn leather parts easily in her hands and she squints into the darkness, her eyes running over his driver's license.

Richard Castle.

The name is unfamiliar to her. She quickly memorizes the address listed under his name then returns the wallet to his pocket and rolls him back over, lowering him gently to the concrete as he moans.

"Hey!"

Beckett looks up and sees Mr. Kim, the owner of the Korean grocery, standing on the sidewalk in front of his store.

"I call the cops," he yells, making wild shooing motions at her. "Be here soon. You go."

She nods at him and raises a hand before looking back down at the man sprawled before her. He's starting to come around, his groans of pain growing both in frequency and volume. Making a split second decision, Kate moves around to crouch behind his head. Hooking her forearms under his armpits, she hefts his body up against her chest as she stands. His head lolls to the side as she drags him across the twenty feet that separate them from the mouth of the alley.

As quickly as she can while carrying an extra hundred and seventy-five pounds, Kate maneuvers backward down the alley. She keeps going until she crosses the inky black line of demarcation, the point where the sulphur light from the street lamps no longer reaches them. The stench of an overflowing dumpster makes her stomach turn as she lower his dead weight to the ground, propping him up against the rough brick wall. She crouches next to him and steadies his wobbling head with her hands as she scans the alley, making sure they're alone.

"That was hot."

The slur of his voice pulls her attention back and she releases his head, dropping down from the balls of her feet to rest on her heels, the tip of her sheath bumping against the side of her calf. The man stares up at her with unfocused eyes, blinking slowly. "What's your name?"

"Rick Castle," he says, one side of his mouth curling up into a lazy smile. "What's yours?"

He didn't lie about his name. Kate feels a the weight on her chest lighten by a few ounces. Ignoring his question, she asks another of her own, "Why are you following me, Rick?"

"Not following. Looking."

"Why?"

"Wanna write about you." His face morphs into a grimace when he shifts his leg, fingers curled into tight fists. "Fuck, that hurts."

The piercing howl of sirens echoes through the night. Rick jumps, groaning when the back of his head connects sharply with the wall. Kate listens carefully, tries to determine how much time she has to clear out before they arrive. The sirens grow louder with each second and she spits out a curse. She has to get out but she needs answers. Needs to know who the hell this man is and what he wants with her. Sucking in a deep breath, she makes the decision.

"Can you stand?"

Rick looks at her blankly. "Wha?"

"The cops are going to be here in about two minutes. We have to move. Can you stand?"

"Oh. Um, I'm not sure." He shifts away from the wall, leaning his torso over his outstretched thighs. With a muted cry, Rick bends his injured knee and plants his hands on the ground as he tries to leverage himself up. He gets halfway and then falls back against the wall, face contorted in pain. "You're gonna have to help me," he grits out, jaw clenched tightly shut.

Silently, Kate stands and leans into him, once again hooking her arms under his. "On three," she says, planting her feet wide in anticipation of his weight. Rick nods and she fists her hands in the back of his damp shirt. "One, two, three."

Rick groans as he pushes up, his hands wrapping almost painfully around her biceps. Kate breathes deeply as she leans back, her knees bent and back loose. They teeter dangerously for a moment before Rick finds his footing. He hisses when he steps down on his injured leg and throws his hand out against the wall for support. Kate moves around and tucks herself into his side, her arms banding around his waist.

"Come on, we gotta move."

The sounds of the sirens start to fade as they hobble clumsily away, Rick swallowing down grunts and groans every few steps. Kate shoulders her way through the familiar hole in the chain link fence that stretches across the back of the alley, pulling him along behind her. They turn left, squeezing into the narrow lane bisecting two run down tenement buildings.

"Your sword is poking me," he complains, shifting his shoulder away from her.

"Shut up," Kate growls, eyes scanning the shadows.

"You know, for a superhero, you're pretty mean."

They come to an abrupt stop and she lets him go, ignoring his muffled moan when falls into the side of the building. Kate jumps up and grabs the bottom rung of the ladder, landing lightly on her feet as it slides to the ground. "Up," she says pointing at the fire escape.

"Are you insane? You want me to climb a fire escape?" Rick looks at her with wide eyes, waving a hand at his leg. "Not happening."

"It's just two stories," she says, undisguised disdain in her voice. "Suck it up."

"Are you leading me to my untimely and grisly death? Because if so, I think it's only prudent to inform you that I have a daughter. And am kinda famous. I'll be missed."

Kate rolls her eyes and grabs him by the arm. "Just climb the damn ladder."

Rick looks at her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers. She knows he can't see her face through the mask but still has to resist the urge to shy away from his gaze. The hair on the back of her neck prickles as they stare each other down.

"Fine," he huffs at length. "But if I fall, it's on you. Which, by the way, is also where I will land."

She follows him up the stairs, their progress slow and laborious. She can see his knuckles turning white around the rusty railing as he climbs and she does feel badly about forcing him to do this when he's in such obvious pain but she has to. She has to find out who the hell he is and what he wants from her and she can't do it in the middle of the street. Not tonight. Her stomach pitches and rolls with the thought of letting this man into her home. She scoffs inwardly. Home. She hasn't had a home in years. Not since she was forced out of her job and became what she is.

"Stop," she says when they reach the landing outside the window. Rick falls into the wall, panting, his face pale and sweat beading on his forehead. Kate slips her fingers into the casement, popping the latch with a practiced move. She slides the grimy pane up and gestures through the opening. "In."

"Gimme a minute," he says, agony evident in his tone.

"The longer you stand there, the more it's going to hurt when you move. Just climb through the window, Rick."

"I like the way you say my name. So much disgust in just one little syllable." He pushes off the railing and plants his hands on the window sill, sliding his good leg through first. "It's sexy."

Kate slips in behind him and shuts the window. She strides down the hallway, not bothering to wait for him. He catches up to her by the time she's dug her keys out of the hidden pocket of her suit, flipping open the multiple deadbolts with an efficient hand.

"Where the in the hell were you hiding _those_?"

Swinging the door open, she ushers him in before her, pointing at the couch. "Sit," she commands, turning back to lock the door, the security bar sliding into place with a satisfying click.

"Holy shit," Rick breathes, his injured leg stretched out in front of him. "Are you paranoid or what?"

Kate ignores him and moves to the kitchen, reaching into the freezer for an ice pack and snatching her first aid bag from the counter. She doesn't get injured often but finds it better to be prepared. Pulling a bottle of water from the refrigerator, she crosses back over to the couch. She wraps her hand around his right ankle and lifts, swinging his leg up onto the couch before spreading the ice pack over his knee. She tosses the kit and water into his lap and then backs into the middle of the room.

"This is your lair?" Rick looks around, hand holding the ice pack in place as he twists his body. "Kinda lame."

Kate crosses her arms and stares him down. "Why were you following me?"

"I told you, I wasn't following you. I was looking for you." He looks up at her, the blood on his cheek starting to crack as it dries. "Are you going to take that mask off?"

"Okay, then why were you looking for me?"

Rick sighs, falling heavily back against the arm of the couch. "I heard about you a month or so ago," he explains, the pain seeping back into his voice. "I decided to track you down so I could get your story. I want to write about you."

"I'm not interested in press."

"I'm a novelist, not a journalist." He fumbles with the first aid kit, hands shaking as he tries to pull open the zipper. "I just killed my last character and possibly my career because I was bored and uninspired and then I heard about you and was no longer bored or uninspired so I decided to track you down which led to me getting my ass kicked twice and now here we are. Why the fuck can't I get this open?"

The bag rattles as he shakes it, a box of bandages falling out of the side pocket. Taking pity on him, Kate unfolds her arms and steps over to the couch. She pulls the bag from his hand and crouches down, unzipping it as she sets it down on the floor.

"Seriously, are you going to take off that mask?"

"No." She pulls out an unmarked bottle and pops the lid, pouring two large, white pills into her open palm. "Here," she says, holding her gloved hand out in his direction, "take these."

"What are they?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

"You've dragged me into a hovel and are handing me unmarked pills. I think questions are warranted."

"It's hydrocodone."

"Why isn't it the bottle labeled?"

Kate stares at him mutely.

"Oh, right. Superheroes don't get prescriptions. Got it." Rick takes the pills from her hand and puts them in his mouth, cracking open the water and taking a healthy gulp. He lets his head fall back, the curved arm of the couch cushioning his neck. "This couch smells."

"Sorry my hovel isn't up to your standards."

Rolling his head to the side, he looks at her through suddenly cloudy eyes. "You're prickly. I like it."

Kate watches as his eyes roll back, the adrenaline wearing off as the medicine starts to kick in. His body goes slack and she finally relaxes, her own muscles releasing the tension they've been storing for the last hour. Quickly, she strips off her mask and suit, eyes flicking to the unconscious man on her couch every few seconds. She wants a shower but the idea of leaving him alone for even the five minutes that would take makes her stomach churn. He's relatively harmless, she's decided, but the paranoia still sits coiled at the base of her spine.

Quietly, she pulls open the first aid kit and cleans his wounds, wiping down his face with a wet washcloth from the kitchen before slathering antiseptic ointment over the open cuts and bandaging them. She wraps an elastic bandage around his injured knee and replaces the ice pack with a fresh one. Backing away, she slides down the opposite wall, knees pulled up to her chest as she watches him sleep.

* * *

_Thanks for reading. Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated. _


	5. Chapter 5

Rick groans, waving a heavy hand through the air in a vain attempt to stop the relentless buzzing. Sharp needles of pain lance through his knee, radiating out in waves, fire licking his body awake piece by piece. The knot on the back of his head throbs with every beat of his heart and his face feels swollen and hot.

Eyes squeezed tightly shut, he tries to breathe through the pain, his blunt nails digging into the filthy denim covering his thighs. The buzzing persists as he gives his ankle an experimental roll, crying out softly as his knee spasms, the tendons pulling tightly on his bones.

"Your phone has been ringing for five minutes." Her voice, low and commanding, filters through the red haze of pain and Rick rolls his head toward the sound, oddly comforted. Peeling one eye open and wincing at the glare of the early morning sun, he finds her propped rigidly against the opposite wall, knees pulled up to her chest and staring at him with carefully guarded eyes. "Must be one of those adoring fans you were certain would miss you."

Shit.

Alexis.

Clumsily, Rick digs his hand into his pocket and fishes out his phone, the black plastic case vibrating angrily against his palm. He groans when he sees his daughter's smiling face looking out at him from behind a spiderweb of cracks; he _just_ got the damn thing. His thumb pops noisily when he swipes it across the damaged screen. Breathing deeply, he brings the phone to his ear and answers with false cheer. "Good morning, pumpkin."

"Dad!" Rick pulls the phone away from his ear, grimacing. "Dad, where are you?! I woke up and you weren't here and there was no note and you always leave a note even when I really don't want to know what you're going to be doing and your bed hasn't been slept in and - "

"Alexis," he cuts her off in his best placating father voice. "Calm down. I'm fine."

"Where are you?"

"I'm - Uh -" Rick stutters, trying to formulate a plausible reason for his absence. _Don't worry, honey, I'm just laid up on the couch of a super hot vigilante who saved my ass for the second time last night and is currently staring at me like she'd like nothing more than to explore the long dormant practice of defenestration._ Not gonna fly.

"Dad, are you hurt? Have you been abducted?" Alexis' voice pitches up an octave, her words slamming into each other in her panic. "Do I need to call the police? Maybe they can find you. Did you activate the GPS on your new phone? You didn't, did you? I _told_ you to do it and now they're not going to be able to find you and -"

"_Denouement_," Rick almost shouts, stressing the word as hard as he possibly can. "Denouement, Alexis."

"Oh." He hears her squeak out a sigh at his use of their code word and is suddenly very grateful for the insanely overprotective phase he'd gone through a few years ago when Alexis first started venturing out into the city on her own. "Okay. Where are you?"

"Patterson's," he lies, wishing he'd been able to do it so easily a minute ago. "We had an impromptu game last night and I -"

"Got the pants beaten off of you?"

"Right. Drowned my sorrows a bit too thoroughly so I slept it off here. I'm sorry I didn't call."

"I'm just glad you didn't get arrested again," Alexis says, relief tempered by lingering fear in her voice. "My college fund can't take another hit."

"That was one time," Rick grouses good naturedly, swallowing down a pained gasp as he sits up on the mouldering couch. He angles his body toward the woman sitting on the floor, eyes scanning over her in a way he's fairly certain is indecent. She's gorgeous. Shoulder length brown hair, deep green eyes and a smirking mouth with which he has an undeniable urge to become better acquainted. "And I paid you back double."

"Still. No one wants to get a call to come bail their dad out of jail because he stole a police horse. While naked."

"It was spring."

"It was gross." He can almost hear the eye roll. "Okay, I have to get ready for school or I'm going to be late."

"I'll be there when you get home." And hopefully will have come up with a halfway believable story for his current state. "Have a good day, pumpkin. Love you."

"Love you too, Dad. Bye."

Rick disconnects the call and lets the phone drop into his lap. Digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, he stretches his back, whimpering as his muscles pull and joints crack. "Seriously, where did you get this couch? Is it some sort of medieval torture device? You drag the thugs up here and strap them to this thing for the night and they spill all their secrets?"

"You have a kid?"

He drops his hands and looks over, trying to get a bead on her. She's going for impassive but he can see the clench of her jaw, her mouth pulled into a thin line of disapproval. Her body is a coiled spring, knees pulled up to her chest and feet planted firmly on the ground, ready to vault into action at any second. She's quite obviously not a woman to be toyed with but he just can't seem to help himself. "I told you that last night when I was trying to dissuade you from killing and dismembering me."

"You have a kid and you were wandering around an unfamiliar neighborhood in the middle of the night, drawing attention to yourself and practically begging to have your ass kicked? What the hell kind of an idiot are you?"

"I wasn't drawing attention to myself," Rick defends, twisting to face her, his stiff right leg extended straight out in front of him.

"Coming around night after night and asking everyone you see about me isn't drawing attention to yourself?"

"How did you -" He gasps, delighted. "_You've_ been following _me_!"

She stands up, fists clenched at her sides and shoulders pressed into the yellowing wallpaper. "You need to go home to your kid, Castle. Go home and forget about this. About me."

"Castle?" Her eyes widen slightly and he latches on, determined to exploit this minor crack in her armor. "That was second nature, calling me by my last name. Which means you have some sort of background where addressing people by their surname is commonplace. Military?" Rick watches as her eyes narrow to cold, dangerous slits and can't hold back the smug smile. He's got her. "Hmm. No. I don't think military is right. You don't seem like the type to blindly follow orders. Oh! Are you CIA? That would be so cool."

The woman pushes off the wall and stalks toward the kitchen, never fully turning her back to him. He's clearly in no state or position to ambush her and yet she's still on alert, guarded. The paranoia intrigues him. What could she possibly be so scared of?

"FBI? DHS? Maybe you're KGB here on a deep cover assignment." She grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator, a rickety old thing painted a sickly green, and leans back against the appliance. He watches her throat work as she pulls on the bottle and can feel his heart accelerating. She really is stupidly hot. "Or maybe - maybe you're a cop." The plastic crinkles, the sides of the bottle collapsing as her fingers clench tightly around it. "That's it. You're a cop. Or -" He cocks his head to the side, assessing. "You _were_ a cop. But something happened. Something tragic."

Rick watches as her chest rises and falls steadily, can practically see her counting to ten on each inhale. Her face is slack, stoic, but her eyes - her eyes give her away. There's something there. Something fragile and tenuous but edged with steel. He needs to know more. Needs to know _her_. "But not to you. You're wounded but you're not that wounded. So, who was it? Partner? Boyfriend?"

She pushes off the refrigerator and stalks toward him, her steps solid and sure. "You need to go."

"Family member?" He watches her freeze halfway across the room, her eyes falling shut as her chest hitches slightly. "That's it. _That's_ your origin story. Haunted by the tragic loss of a loved one and disillusioned by the system that failed you, you decided to take justice into your own hands. It's a bit cliché but I can make it work."

The woman jerks, anger radiating off her in waves. Rick stares up at her as she moves to loom over him. A vein throbs in her forehead, a deep blue line extending from her hairline to just above her right eyebrow. It gives him a perverse sort of thrill to know that he's gotten under her skin so thoroughly. So easily. "You need to get the hell out," she says, a menacing growl in her voice. "Get out and _never_ come back."

"Tell me your name."

She blinks down at him, a quick flash of confusion darting through her eyes before the steel wall slams back into place. "Get up."

"Tell me your name and I'll go," Rick bargains, scooting forward on the couch.

"You'll go whether I tell you my name or not."

"Okay, yes. You're right. But I still want to know."

Backing up a few paces, the woman folds her arms over her chest and glares at him with unmasked contempt. "What does it matter? You're never coming back here; you don't need to know my name."

"Oh but I do, Officer." Rick feels something in his chest clench when she flinches at the title. He can see that he's causing her some measure of pain with all of this and, for reasons he's not yet had time to assess, it bothers him but he can't seem to stop. The desire to know her story, to know how it is that a gorgeous, presumably intelligent, and obviously driven woman became a back alley vigilante. There's a story there. A story worth pursuing, worth knowing. Worth telling. "I really, really do."

"Please," she says, a quiet vulnerability in her voice that shocks him, knocks the air right out of his lungs. Her eyes lock with his and suddenly all he wants is to somehow, some way chase away the ghosts he sees haunting them. "Please just go."

"Okay," he says after a long moment. "Okay."

Slowly, he leverages himself off the couch, his ribs pulling tightly as he stands. His knee protests angrily when he puts weight on it, a hot flame of agony shooting up to his hip. Wobbling unsteadily for a moment, Rick hold his arms out and finds his equilibrium, standing as still as he can until the room stops spinning. Stomach rolling, he looks up at her, finds a hazy film of sympathy in her eyes.

"I'll go," Rick says, taking one limping step in her direction as she takes a mirroring step back. "But I'll be back."

"No, you won't," she says, breaking their staring contest and walking toward the door. He watches as she lifts the security bar and thumbs open the deadbolts, allows himself to check her out, his gaze scanning slowly over her figure. Long legs, shapely hips, a toned back that he has a deep seated urge to feel rippling under his fingertips.

"Keep telling yourself that, Nikki."

She opens the door and spins to face him, eyebrow arching dangerously. "Nikki?"

"Well, you won't tell me your name and I have to call you something." Rick shrugs and limps his way over to her. "You look like a Nicole."

"Then why not call me Nicole?"

Her eyes go wide again and he has to swallow down a smug chuckle. It tickles him that she doesn't want to engage but can't seem to stop herself.

"Because if your name was Nicole you would hate being called Nikki," he says, watching as she rolls her eyes and shrugs him off, head swiveling back and forth as she peers out into the hallway. "It would annoy you."

The woman, Nikki as he'll think of her for now, steps out into the hallway and points toward the window. "Go."

Rick hobbles out, brushing his shoulder against hers deliberately as he does. "I suppose that's the only way out?" She nods, a tiny smirk playing on her lips. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, he makes his way slowly down the hall, straining to hear her light movements behind him. He's panting by the time he makes it to the window, sweat beading on his forehead. This is going to hurt. A lot.

The window slides open smoothly and he inches out, blinking blearily in the early morning sun. Both feet planted on the rusty metal slats, he turns back to her and smiles. "See you soon, Nikki."

She rolls her eyes again, forearms flexing as she pulls the window closed. "Have a nice life, Rick."

With a laugh, Rick makes his way slowly down the fire escape, his knee screaming with every step. He resists the urge to look back until he makes it all the way to the alley, body burning with the exertion. Shading his eyes with a cupped hand, he looks up. The sun reflects sharply off the window and he squints, a smile pulling at his lips when he sees her still standing there, looking down at him.

Yeah, he'll definitely be back.

* * *

_Thanks for reading. Your comments and thoughts are always appreciated. _


	6. Chapter 6

_Huge thanks to Jess, Joy, and Teddy for holding my hand through this and convincing me on a regular basis not to delete the story_.

* * *

He takes a shower first this time.

The thick layer of grime covering his skin makes him itch. He's never been one to get his hands dirty, at least not literally, and the desire to get clean, to stand under the thundering spray of hot water and watch the dirt and blood swirl down the drain greatly appeals to him.

Dropping his keys and wallet on the dresser, Rick limps into the bathroom, stepping lightly on the ball of his foot. Pointedly ignoring the large mirror hanging above the sink, he lowers himself onto the closed lid of the toilet. A hiss escapes without his permission when he leans over and fumbles with the knotted laces of his boots, the heavy rubber soles thumping loudly on the tiled floor when he finally gets them off, socks falling quietly alongside.

Right arm curled protectively around his aching ribs, he sits up and starts to unwind the thick elastic bandage from around his knee, grinning as he goes. She bandaged his knee. As annoyed and angry as she was, she took the time to clean and patch him up once he passed out on her couch. It's an insight into who she is, he thinks. One she definitely didn't intend to give. She's wounded and damaged and clearly on some sort of mission but underneath the suit and the biting sarcasm, there's a need to help. To care. To protect.

He lets out a groan as the pressure around his knee eases and the ache intensifies. Climbing slowly back up to his feet, he peels off the ruined t-shirt, shucks his jeans and boxers before finally turning to look at himself in the mirror. Long scrapes and shallow cuts crisscross over his arms and he's missing more than a few layers of skin from the back of his left elbow. Bruises cover his torso, the imprint of a knee clearly visible in the middle of his chest. Turning to the side, he finds a hematoma blooming on his hip, the deep purple blood pooling under his skin. And his face. No wonder the cabbie was so anxious to hustle him out onto the sidewalk. Split lip, black eye, a still weeping gash along his left eyebrow. If he didn't hurt so much he thinks he might be able to appreciate the kind of badass look of it all.

Turning on the water, Rick hobbles into the stall and adjusts the dual shower heads to a gentle, lukewarm flow. The thundering spray will have to wait for a time when he doesn't feel like he's been used as a tackling dummy. Taking a seat on the tiled bench that lines the back wall and feeling a rare appreciation for the excesses of his first ex-wife, he cleans himself as quickly as he can, body protesting with every stretch and twist. The water stings his open wounds and he does a mental inventory of his medicine cabinet, running down the various bandages, antiseptics, ointments, salves and pain killers he keeps on hand. As Alexis likes to remind him. the paranoia of parenthood comes in handy for accident prone fathers.

Getting dried and dressed turns into a bit of a production. Once he finally manages to get himself clothed and upright in front of the mirror, Rick smears antibiotic ointment over the cuts on his face and abrasions on his arms. He grabs a fresh elastic bandage for his knee and slowly makes his way around the loft, gathering ice packs, a bottle of anti-inflammatory painkillers, and a bottle of Gatorade before shuffling back to the bedroom.

Nikki was right. He _is_ a fucking idiot.

He tosses the supplies on the bed and then collapses on the edge, panting slightly. Scooting back against the headboard, Rick constructs a hill of pillows to support his leg before propping it up with a quiet groan. He secures the bandage snugly around his knee and arranges the ice pack to cover as much of the aching area as possible.

It takes a few minutes of shifting and whimpering to find a comfortable position for his battered body. Breathing out a sigh of relief when he finally manages to contort himself into a position that takes as much pressure off his bruises as possible, Rick pops three of the painkillers and grabs his laptop from the nightstand. He says a little thank you to his past self for breaking his self-imposed rule to never write in bed outside of illness or injury and wakes the machine.

The Lone Vengeance document sits in the middle of his desktop and he mouses over to it, clicking the little icon three times in his excitement. He doesn't bother to read what he's already written, the bones of a plot and random snippets of dialogue filling up just a few pages. Without thinking, he lets his fingers fly, watching as the cursors rockets across the screen, a slip stream of words in its wake. The story comes easily, the events of the previous night present but malleable, allowing him to mould them into something a bit more fantastical.

He uses the name he'd given her. The one that made her eyes flash and roll. Nikki. The name matters. It always does. It helps him figure out who a character is, what they want, need, fear, love. It's the foundation upon which he builds. The naming process has always been a chore for him before; waiting for that right combination, the serendipitous union of random letters that results in a picture forming in his mind. But not this time. This time he knows.

She _is _Nikki.

It's a hard name; a blunt start and the vowels outnumbered yet still able to soften the sharp slice of the consonants. He likes the angles of it, how it reminds him of the tip of her sword poking him in the thigh, the bony edge of her elbow digging into his ribs. The roundness at the end bringing back the vulnerability he saw in her eyes when he'd poked his fingers just a little too far into the cracks of her armor. He wants to do her justice. Wants to capture as much of her on the page as he can. The name, he thinks, is a good start.

Rick completely loses himself in the words, building and shaping a world around her. Filling in the blanks and posing more questions. He types for hours, breaking only to switch out his ice packs and hobble to the bathroom a couple of times. The computer gets warm in his lap but he keeps going, shifting it to another patch of thigh when the heat gets to be too much. He's still going at four, doesn't hear the slam of the front door or the click of his daughter's shoes.

"What the heck happened to you?!"

The laptop slides off his legs and teeters precariously on the edge of the mattress. Rick snatches it back and puts it gently on the nightstand, making sure to save his work. "Alexis," he says, his hours dormant voice cracking. "How was school? You had a Calculus test today, right?"

"You weren't at James' house last night, were you?"

Alexis crosses her arms, blue eyes flashing as she stalks closer and Rick swallows, slightly amused at his nervousness in the face of his angry and disapproving fifteen year old daughter. "Not as such, no."

"Where were you? And what happened to your face?"

"Ran into a door?"

"Dad."

"A door with a mean right hook."

"It's not funny," Alexis whispers, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. "You look really bad." The smile melts off his face at the tremor in her voice and Rick holds out a hand, wiggling his fingers to beckon her closer. Dropping her backpack on the floor, Alexis takes his hand and climbs up onto the bed, her plaid skirt rustling as she settles down next to him. "What happened?"

Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, Rick pulls her into his side, holding back the whimper of pain when her elbow bumps against his aching ribs. He tells her the story quickly and with as few details as possible, his normal flair for the dramatic lost in the face of her tearful concern. "And then," he wraps up, making a concentrated effort to keep his voice light, "I caught a cab and came home."

"Let me get this straight." Alexis leans back, the worry in her eyes now overshadowed by exasperated disbelief. "You've been sneaking out after I go to bed so you can wander around strange and dangerous neighborhoods in the middle of the night, looking for superheroes to write your next book about?"

"Just _one_ neighborhood," he corrects stupidly. "And one superhero."

"Yes, because that makes it better. What the hell are you thinking, Dad? You could get killed!"

"I'm being careful."

"No," she huffs, deliberately poking a finger into a bruise on his forearm. "you're being an idiot."

Ricks laughs lightly. "That's what she said."

"Who?"

"Lone Vengeance. Nikki."

"Lone Vengeance's name is _Nikki_?"

"No. Or, well, it could be. I'm not sure."

Alexis leans back, eyebrow raised. "Do I need to take you to the hospital for a CAT scan?"

"My brain is no more damaged than usual," he laughs again, grabbing his laptop from the nightstand as Alexis shifts away from him. "She wouldn't tell me her name so I gave her one just to annoy her but it kinda stuck. It fits the character."

"It is pretty cool that Lone Vengeance is a woman. I never would have guessed that."

"Right?! Totally badass." Alexis laughs at him as she leans over the grabs her backpack, hefting the heavy bag up onto the mattress and pulling out a thick textbook. "She's so awesome," he continues, excitement lacing his words. "Sarcastic, tough, kinda mean but not malicious. Just guarded. You can see it in her eyes, the pain she's been through. The pain she's still going through. Something happened to her, something tragic. I want to find out what it was. What made her into who she is."

"You like her."

Rick turns, finds Alexis looking at him with a knowing grin. "What?"

"You like her." She gestures at him with her pencil, drawing a circle in the air. "It's all over your face."

"I think she's interesting. Intriguing." He grins. "And hot. So, so hot."

Alexis wrinkles her nose. "Ew. Boundaries, Dad."

"Sorry."

Rick focuses on the laptop again, reading back over the last few paragraphs. He tries to pick up where he left off but the words are lost, his flow broken. Sighing softly, he saves the work again, and again, before closing the document and opening the internet browser. If she _is_ a former cop - which he's pretty sure she is based on her reaction to his theorizing - maybe he can find some information about who she really is. Her real name, at least. It's a long shot at best but he tries anyway, searching various keywords he thinks might pop. He's on his fourth generic set - former NYPD female officers - when Alexis looks up from her notes.

"You're going to try to find her again, aren't you?"

He stops, fingers hovering over the keys, and looks over at her. She's going for nonchalant but worry creases her young face, two thin lines pulled together between her eyebrows, the corners of her mouth turned down. She never has had much of a poker face, his daughter. "Yeah," he says gently, "I am. I need to know more about her."

"For the book." Alexis looks doubtful.

"Yes, for the book. And hey," he reaches out and tugs the end of her long red hair, the tightness in his chest loosening when she gives him a tiny smile, "there's no finding involved now. I know where she is, where she lives. No need to wander around in the middle of the night anymore."

"You'll be careful? No more getting beat up?"

"I'll be careful, pumpkin. I promise," he says earnestly.

Alexis studies him, her eyes brightening after a long moment. "She never should have brought you home with her."

Rick cocks his head to the side. "Why?"

"Because you're like a lost puppy," Alexis answers, a grin pulling at her lips as she focuses back on her schoolwork. "You'll just keep showing up and whining until she eventually lets you in."

Rick laughs. "That's my plan."

* * *

Two weeks pass and she doesn't see him again.

Kate lays low for the first week, only heading out for a few hours each night and sticking close to home. She runs into Mr. Kim on the fifth night. He assures her that no one has come around asking about her and that he hasn't seen Castle since the night she saved him from the gang. She wants to believe it's over, that he'll listen to her and stay away but she knows he won't. She could see it in his face. He's persistent. Privileged. Used to getting what he wants, when he wants it. He'll be back.

She contemplates moving. It would be a easy to find another abandoned building, another broken down apartment she could turn into - Not a home. She hasn't had one of those in years. A haunt. A place to sleep and watch and plan. She could pack up her suits and her research, move to another part of the city. But she knows he'd just come looking for her again. He'd wander the streets, drawing attention she doesn't want or need.

She's not going to run. She's not going to let some egotistical writer dictate her life, her choices. She's done that enough. Let the actions and words of others drive her into hiding, into obscurity. Not this time. Not with him. She'll continue to do her work, to try to bring some measure of safety and stability to this neighborhood she's come to care about despite her best efforts not to.

Her phone rings on the eleventh night.

It's a burner; a cheap piece of plastic with too small buttons and a number only one person has. The caller ID is blocked as usual but she answers with confidence, one hundred percent certain of who is on the other end.

"Esposito."

"Hey, Joan," he answers, using the alias they'd decided on this time. They change it every three months, tossing out her name every time she tosses out a phone. Esposito tells her she's being overly paranoid but he goes with it anyway having learned long ago that for Kate Beckett there is no such thing as overly paranoid. "I was just calling to check in. Haven't heard from you in awhile or seen anything about you on the blotter."

"I've been keeping a low profile," Kate explains. "Had a bit of a problem a few weeks ago."

"You need help?"

Kate smiles at the concern in his voice. He's a good man, Javier Esposito. They'd bonded in the Academy, both damaged and more than a little jaded. It only took a few months for them to fall into bed, using each other for release and escape. It's a casual arrangement, no strings or commitments, which works fine for both of them. They've taken breaks over the years when one or the other had been in a relationship, him more often than her, but through it all have maintained a rock solid friendship.

They're a lot alike, she and Espo, and sometimes Kate thinks that in another life, in another world, maybe they could have actually been something. But that world doesn't exist and so she doesn't let herself dwell on the what ifs. What they have now is good. She trusts him with her life, with her secrets, and knows that if she needs anything, anything at all, she can call him and he'll be there for her in an instant, no questions asked.

"No," she answers. "It's nothing I can't handle."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I'll let you know if anything changes but I've got it under control."

"Okay. Wanna meet up soon?"

Kate laughs. He's always straight to the point. She likes that. "You got an itch that needs scratching?"

"Something like that."

"What about Miranda? You sounded pretty serious about her."

"She got a job offer in Chicago last month. Too good to pass up," he explains, a hint of melancholy in his voice. Kate frowns. She'd really thought he had a chance at making something stick with her.

"I'm sorry, Espo."

"Eh," he says and she can practically hear his shoulders shrugging over the phone. "It happens. Whatcha gonna do about it, right? So, you in?"

"When?"

"Tomorrow night? I get off shift at nine."

"Yeah, that sounds good." Sex with Esposito is always fun, a little raw and rough, and it's been a few months so she could definitely use the release. "Meet at your place around ten? I'll bring the beer."

"Works for me. See you then."

The line goes dead and Kate tosses the phone back into the drawer. Sighing she opens the door to her closet and pushes the suits out of the way before dropping down to sit on the floor. Note cards and photographs decorate the back wall, her mother's picture dead center. She hasn't added anything new in months. Esposito gives her information when he can and she visits various branches of the library regularly but it's a painfully slow process. The answers are out there somewhere, she knows it, but working on her own with limited resources and nearly nonexistent contacts is starting to take its toll. She needs a break.

Soon.

* * *

She knocks on Esposito's door at five after ten, a six pack in her hand and her ponytail pulled through a ball cap. It's a flimsy disguise, one she knows won't really protect her from anyone seriously looking for her, but it gives her some sense of anonymity. She can walk the streets with her head cast down, face obscured from most security and traffic cameras. It's doesn't completely assuage her fears but it's enough to give her the confidence to go out into the city without her suit and mask.

The door swings open and Espo nods her in. "Hey."

"Hey," she replies, holding up the damp cardboard. "You're gonna have to put that in the fridge."

Kate walks into the living room while Esposito heads to the kitchen, beer in hand. She toes off her sneakers and removes the hat before dropping onto the couch and sinking down into the overstuffed cushions. If there's one thing she appreciates most about these encounters with Espo - aside from the orgasms - it's his furniture. His apartment is a stereotypical bachelor pad with a leather couch and recliners, a giant flat screen television and every gaming system available. She used to pick on him about it until the night he'd convinced her to play Halo. They'd sat on his couch in their underwear until three in the morning, shooting aliens and cursing at the screen. Now it's part of their routine - beer, sex, and video games with the occasional pizza thrown in just to shake things up.

Esposito comes in, two open beers hanging casually from his fingers. "Had a few cold ones already," he explains, handing over one of the bottles. Kate wraps her lips around the rim and takes a long pull, completely aware of the way Esposito stares at her as she swallows.

"How's the precinct?"

"Fine," he answers, sitting down next to her and taking a swig from his bottle. "Got a new partner. Irish dude named Ryan."

"You like him?"

Espo puts his beer on the coffee table and leans toward her, one hand skating up the outside of her left thigh. "He's alright. A little green but pretty solid."

"Any good cases?" Kate puts her bottle down next to his and turns, swinging her body onto his lap, reaching down to unbuckle his belt.

"Not really." Esposito's hands move over her ass, squeezing, before slipping under her shirt. He tugs it over her head and tosses it to the floor, fingers immediately moving to the clasp of her bra. "Nothing you'd be interested in, anyway." He lifts off the back of the couch, leaning forward to bite at her collarbone. "I know how you like the freaky ones, Beckett."

It's hot and furious after that, teeth and nails scraping over skin as they move from the couch to the floor to the wall. They don't talk. There are no names moaned or sentimental words whispered. It's fierce and raw, carnal. She likes it that way. Likes the way he kisses her sparingly, opting instead to bite at her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. He doesn't coddle her, doesn't try to make it slow or gentle. They both know what this is; he takes what he needs from her and she does the same. It's animalistic and messy and it's exactly what she wants.

She never stays over, always pulls on her clothes after the third or fourth time, heading out into the predawn streets. Esposito nods her out the same way he nodded her in, his unbuttoned pants riding low on his waist. "Call me if you need anything."

Kate stands in the doorway, pulling her hair back through the hat. "I'm due for a new phone in a couple of weeks. I'll call you with the number."

"Alright. I'm off next Wednesday. Wanna do this again?"

"Sounds good," she smiles, patting his bare chest and kissing his cheek before walking away.

She walks home quickly, not wanting to spend too much time on the streets. She can take care of herself if anything were to happen, of course, but she'd rather not give an incident the chance to occur. The last thing she wants is to have to deal with the police, either as Lone Vengeance or Kate Beckett.

Slipping into the alley, she ducks under the hole in the fence and heads straight for the fire escape, a shower and then sleep the only things on her mind. The ladder rattles as she pulls it down and clambers up, the metal cool against her fingertips. She's on the first landing when she sees him, a hulking body half hidden in the shadows. The urge to bolt up the steps hits her hard in the chest but she ignores it, not willing to give him the satisfaction. Carefully maintaining her current pace, Kate ascends the stairs, coming to a halt on the landing outside her window.

Castle leans against the wall, cardboard tray with two coffee cups and a pastry bag held in his right hand, a smug grin painted across his face.

"Mornin', Nikki." He lifts the tray, the white paper bag rustling. "I brought breakfast."

* * *

_Thanks so much for reading. Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated. _

_(__Sorry for the wait on this chapter. Had a fight with the words. I think I won. Maybe. _

_Also, there will be no love triangle. Just in case you were wondering.)_


	7. Chapter 7

_Happy Birthday, S_.

* * *

"Is that a hickey?"

The hat casts a shadow over her face but Rick can see her jaw flexing as she silently turns toward the window and pops it open. He'd debated about waiting for her in the hallway but had finally decided that she'd be less likely to run him through with her sword if he stayed outside where the potential for having a witness to his grisly murder was slim yet still a concern.

The window sticks when she tries to open it, the damp air leaving the wood swollen and stiff, and he watches the way her arms flex as she presses her palms to the bottom of the frame and pushes, a tiny huffing grunt blowing through her nose. She's strong. Obviously, she's strong. She wouldn't be a superhero if she wasn't. But there's something about watching her exert force while out of costume that makes her look brittle. Breakable. Like she would shatter if he managed to hit her in exactly the right place.

"That _is_ a hickey," he says, pushing off the wall and leaning closer. "So Lone Vengeance has a boyfriend? Or is he just a booty call? Ooh, or maybe it's a _she_? Lesbian superhero would be so hot."

When the window is high enough, Nikki slides her body through the crack, chest brushing across the dry and brittle weatherstripping that lines the frame. She doesn't immediately slam the window closed once she's in so Rick takes it as an invitation to follow. Juggling the tray and the pastry bag, he climbs clumsily over the sill, sucking in his stomach in an effort to make himself small enough to squeeze through the slender gap. Coffee sloshes out of one of the cups and Rick hisses, switching the tray to his other hand. Wiping his wet wrist on his jeans, he jogs after her, the paper bag crinkling as he moves.

"You could have helped me through the window, you know."

"That would have given you the mistaken impression that I actually want you to be here," she says without looking back, ponytail and hips swinging as she walks.

"I think you _do_ want me to be here, Nikki," Rick answers, coming to a halt behind her at the door, deliberately standing close enough to feel the heat of her back against his chest. "You knew I would come back. If you really never wanted to see me again, you wouldn't have stayed."

"I'm not moving just because some jackass writer can't take a hint," she says, flipping the final lock. The door swings open and she steps over the threshold, spinning on the spot to place a hand firmly in the middle of his chest. He can't help but look down, enjoying the way her fingers feel splayed wide across his sternum. "The _only_ reason you are standing here right now is because I don't need the attention that tossing your sorry ass over the railing would bring. This -" she waves her free hand through the air between their bodies - "isn't happening. Go away, Castle."

She pushes on his chest, the force great enough to rock him back on his heels, and moves to shut the door. Rick recovers quickly, wedging his foot between the door and the frame, bracing himself against the wood with one shoulder. "Look, just let me in for twenty minutes. Long enough for coffee and a bear claw." He lightly jostles the hand holding the tray and bag. "Twenty minutes and -" He pauses, his roaming gaze catching on the corner of her couch. "Are those -"

Leaning into the door, he uses his body weight to press it in a few more inches, forcing her to take a step back. Rick squints through the dimness and feels a smile break over his face.

"Those are my books," he says, looking back up at her. Embarrassment flashes in her eyes for just a moment before the curtain comes down again. "You bought my books."

With a sigh, she steps back and lets the door swing open. Rick stumbles at the sudden loss of counterweight, his knees giving out for just a moment as he tries to find his center of gravity again. He refuses to fall down in front of her.

Squatting next to the couch, he balances the tray on his knee and picks up the stack. They're obviously used rather than new - the spines broken, covers bent and worn - but a smugness rolls through his chest all the same. She bought his books. Four of them. He reads the titles, relief loosening the knot he hadn't noticed sitting in the middle of his chest. Two Derrick Storms, Flowers For Your Grave, and A Rose For Everafter. At least she got the good ones.

"You were checking me out," he says, putting the books back and turning to face her as he stands.

She pulls off the hat and tosses it on the counter, leaning back against the yellowing laminate with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "I was just trying to determine how much of a jackass you actually are."

Rick laughs, stepping closer to her and holding out the tray. When she makes no move to take it, he shrugs and sets the pressed cardboard on the counter before pulling out his own cup. The coffee is lukewarm but he sips it anyway. "And are you ready to admit you were wrong and let me immortalize you in print now that you've experienced my prior works of genius?"

He blinks in surprise when she scoffs.

"Genius? Our definitions of that word must be very different."

"Wha-"

"What I read was far from genius. It was nothing more than mindless, puerile fluff. The writing itself is serviceable but your characters? Your plots? Flat and predictable. I figured out who the killer was within in the first thirty pages of each one. You telegraph your twists and then try to pass it off as foreshadowing. Your male characters are all _incredibly_ thinly veiled versions of yourself and the female ones -" She snorts derisively. "Have you ever even interacted with an actual woman?"

Her words - her systematic dismantling of his work, breaking it down into tiny, mockable pieces - are a punch to the gut. Rick knows he's not Twain or Hemingway or Fitzgerald; he's not writing the next Great American Novel. But he_ is_ good at what he does. He has talent. He's been eviscerated in reviews before. Has had his work torn down and lambasted by highly respected critics with national platforms. But for some reason coming from her - hearing the disdain in her voice and seeing the dismissal on her face - it cuts him more deeply than any other criticism he's received in the span of his career.

The coffee hangs limply from his fingers as Rick open and closes his mouth, trying to find words to defend himself. To defend his work, his passion.

They don't come.

"You write women as things. Objects to be possessed or seduced. They have one defining trait, usually promiscuity or helplessness, and that's it. They're set dressing for you. Someone for your male character to lose or use or save. Your comment about a lesbian superhero?" She laughs coldly. "Exactly the kind of thing I would expect from you. It's not about being progressive or inclusive. It's about you thinking how hot it would be to have a woman running around in a skimpy leather outfit and taking frequent breaks to have sex with another woman. It's about you and your book sales, not the characters."

He wants to protest. Wants to give her a list of all the ways she's wrong. But she's not. He _was _thinking of how hot it would be. How it would set the fanboys aflame and sell more books.

"Your writing has no basis in reality, Castle. Out here in the real world, the good guys don't always win and justice isn't always served. You paint a pretty face on tragedies so you can wrap everything up in a nice red bow in three hundred pages or less." She raises an eyebrow, the corner of her lip twitching with the ghost of a smirk. "Given all of that, why would I _ever_ want anything to do with your next masturbatory fantasy disguised as literature?"

It takes him a moment to gather himself. To pick up the pieces she's chiseled off over the past three minutes. He can feel the doubt trickling down his spine, the insecurity he hasn't felt in a decade rearing up inside his chest.

He stopped craving validation for his work long ago. The desperate need to prove himself faded away over the years, dissipating with every new book, with each week spent on bestseller lists. The criticisms and negative reviews became things to be laughed off rather than crippled by.

But this was different.

This was her stripping off the layers of bravado and ego and exposing parts of him he didn't think existed anymore. Bringing to the surface his greatest fears and insecurities. Making him doubt everything he'd spent years building himself up to be. All in less than five minutes.

Slowly, Rick steps forward, invading her personal space, and places the half-empty cup on the counter. He hears a hitch in her breathing when he leans past, her fingers blanching white around her bicep. With a concentrated effort, he straightens his spine and set his shoulders before stepping back a few paces and looking at her. Her face is set in stone, jaw clenched and mouth a thin line. But her eyes. Her eyes give her away. He sees the fire blazing there but it's tempered by something else. Something that looks a lot like remorse.

Quickly, Rick slides back into his persona, pulling it around himself like a second skin, covering the raw nerves and weeping wounds. Tossing her a smug grin, he hooks a thumb over his shoulder at the stack of books sitting on the floor next to her ragged couch. "I can sign those for you if you want."

Her jaw loosens, mouth falling slightly open in surprise at his audacity. Good. He wants to keep her off balance. She's challenged him and he's sure as hell going to do the same.

"No?" Walking backward, Rick holds her gaze as he makes his way to the door. The handle squeaks quietly when he turns it and steps out into the hall. "Maybe next time, then." With a little wave, he pulls the door closed, tossing out just as her face disappears from his view, "See you later, Nikki."

Once he's safely ensconced in the backseat of a cab, he pulls out his phone and opens the note app, thumbs moving quickly over the touch screen. The tiny keyboard is too small for his hands and he knows he's making potentially unintelligible mistakes but the words are flowing and he couldn't stop now even if he wanted to.

When the cab pulls up in front of his building, he emails himself what he's written and throws a few bills at the driver. Rick bolts up the stairs and straight to his office, his fingers itching with the build up of story. He spends hours pouring it all out onto the page, not bothering to reread or edit. He can do that later. Right now, he just needs to get it out.

He needs to prove her wrong.

* * *

There's a large manila envelope tucked into the window ledge a week later.

The edge hangs on a splintered piece of the casement, tearing the thick yellow paper when she tugs it free. Cautiously, Kate turns it over. Her name - his name for her - is scrawled across the front in tidy, slanting cursive. With a sigh, she tucks the envelope under her arm and goes inside.

She catches glimpses of it - tossed haphazardly on the counter - as she goes through her post-patrol routine. She's curious about the contents. Curious about why he left it instead of waiting around to annoy and goad her. With a groan, she stalks into the bathroom, ripping off her clothes and stepping under the rusty spray. She doesn't want to care.

But she does and it pisses her off.

Dressed in a tank top and shorts and with her wet hair dripping onto her bare shoulders, she finally gives into the temptation. Carefully, Kate slides her nail under the edges of the brass fastener, pulling the two sides up and opening the flap. A stack of paper slides into her hand when she tips the envelope over, the top left edges held together with an oversized paper clip.

His handwriting fills a small yellow sticky note attached to the first page.

_If you read this and still don't want anything to do with my next masturbatory fantasy disguised as literature, I promise to leave you alone. _

_(Though I can't promise to leave you out of those masturbatory fantasies. You look really good in leather. )_

_But if you read this and decide to let me prove you wrong, I'll be at the coffee shop near your place tomorrow around two. _

_RC_

Kate sits on the bed, her back propped against the cold wall and the pages resting on the ramp of her thighs. She stares at his note for a long moment, fighting the insane urge to trace her finger over the lines left by his pen. The thick rope of guilt that has been compressing her ribs since that night makes itself known, tightening down until her lungs burn. She hadn't meant to tear into him that way. To rip apart his books and his writing with such malice.

Yes, she thought the books had problems, specifically in the lack of development of the female characters, but she hadn't hated them. There had been more than a few moments when they'd made her gasp or laugh or feel the prickle of anticipation. She'd even found herself tearing up over the death of a minor character at one point. Castle may not be the genius he claimed but he's also not the hack she accused him of being.

Slowly, she reads. The words leap off the page, creating a world similar to her own but richer, deeper. A world of grit and grime, populated by fully realized characters with believable motivations.

A world that revolves around her.

She sees herself in this character he's created. They share the name he bestowed upon her that first night but it's more than that. In the scant amount of time they've spent together, he's somehow managed to almost completely reconstruct not only the world she inhabits but _her_. Kate.

There are differences, of course. A brother lost instead of a mother. Resignation rather than termination. A path chosen based on righteousness not vengeance. But still Nikki is Kate, to an almost alarming degree. She reads it over and over, hand pressed to her mouth in a vain effort to stem the tide of emotions.

Sliding down, Kate secures the pages with the paper clip again and flips off the tiny reading light she keeps clipped to the windowsill next to the bed. Sleep comes slowly and when it does her dreams are painted with his brush, the colors brighter and the action bolder.

* * *

Rick looks at his watch again as he dries his hands with the scratchy paper towels.

Two-thirty.

He's been here for an hour, chugging down two large lattes, picking apart a dry croissant, and trying not to tie himself in knots. He keeps telling himself that it shouldn't matter so much whether or not she comes; he shouldn't be this invested. But it does and he is.

The coffee finally caught up with him five minutes ago and he'd rushed to the bathroom, convinced that the three minutes it would take him to empty his bladder would be the same three minutes in which she came and went. The bathroom door swings slowly on its hydraulic arm and he turns his body sideways to slip through the crack, trying to buy himself as many seconds as possible.

The cafe is sparsely populated, the same few patrons occupying the same few spots as they were before his mad dash to the urinal. Smiling at the little old woman crocheting in the corner, Rick makes his way to the counter and orders another latte. The barista, a sleepy looking kid with holes in his ears and a giant tattoo of a skull on his neck, makes the drink and passes it over the bar, making a lame joke about coffee being like crack. Rick just nods and makes his way back to his table, dropping down into the seat with a sigh.

He'll give her twenty more minutes. He's not ready to admit defeat yet.

Picking up his book, he tries once again to read. He's been stuck on the same paragraph for the past fifteen minutes, his speed reading ability lost to the distraction of looking up every time he hears even the slightest noise. Convinced that Nikki, wherever she is, is getting some kind of perverse satisfaction from his anxiety, Rick forces himself to calm down and focus on the words on the page.

He nearly jumps out of his skin five minutes later when a paperback book thumps heavily on the table in front of him. A smile breaks over his face when he looks up and sees her standing there in jeans and t-shirt with her hair pulled through the same beat up Yankees cap. Pulling out the pen he makes a habit of keeping in his breast pocket, Rick clicks the top and opens the front cover of the book.

"And who should I make it out to?"

"Kate," she says, biting softly on her lower lip. "You can make it out to Kate."

* * *

_As always, thanks so much for reading. Your thoughts and comments are appreciated. _


	8. Chapter 8

The smile he gives her when she tells him her name almost makes her wish she had done it sooner. It's softer, this smile. No trace of arrogance or smugness, just a genuine gratitude at being given something she'd staunchly refused him before now.

Castle presses his foot against the leg of the empty chair and Kate sits, legs crossed and hands resting loosely in her lap. She's still nervous about being here. Nervous about willingly giving this man access to her life. It's not something she'll ever admit to him - she can barely admit it to herself - but she's scared. He's going to push. She'll give him an inch and he'll want a mile. A low hum of dread vibrates in her bones. This probably won't end well for either of them.

"So, _Kate_," he says, putting deliberate emphasis on her name as he finishes his signature with a flourish and pushes the book toward her, "can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

"Really? That's your opening line?"

Castle laughs. "Considering our current location," he sweeps a hand through the air, "I thought it was fitting."

"If by fitting you mean cliché, then yes. And wasted. I don't drink coffee."

"What kind of self-respecting superhero doesn't drink coffee?"

He winces when the toe of her sneaker connects sharply with his right shin. "Not in public,"she hisses, eyes darting around to make sure no one is looking at them.

Castle holds up his hands in surrender. "Secret identity," he whispers, leaning toward her with twinkling eyes. "I got it."

Kate rolls her eyes and stands. "You're a child."

"Wait!" He jumps out of his seat as she turns away. The table rocks as he leans over to grab her elbow "Don't go."

She looks over her shoulder at him, fighting back a grin at the panicked look on his face. "I'm just going to get something to drink," she says, pointing toward the counter.

"Oh." Castle lets her go and sits back down slowly, cheeks staining pink. "Okay. I'll - uh. I'll be here," he finishes lamely, averting his eyes and picking up his cup.

Kate makes her way to the counter and orders an iced green tea, turning around to scan the cafe while she waits. She catches the old woman in the corner smiling at her from behind her crocheting and smiles back, earning a wink in return. She pointedly tries to avoid looking at Castle but finds her gaze slipping back in his direction more than she'd like.

This is going very differently than how she'd imagined. A large part of the reason she'd been hesitant to come was that she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he'd gotten to her. She'd expected to meet a smug and gloating jackass, not this. Not someone real and almost endearing.

The barista passes her cup over the bar and Kate thanks him, turning back toward the table She can feel Castle's eyes on her as she walks, the ice in her glass rattling noisily against the plastic. Avoiding his gaze, she sits down and takes a long sip of her tea.

"So, are you ready to concede to my genius now?"

And there's the jackass.

"Hardly," she scoffs.

"Oh, come on. You liked it or you wouldn't be here. Clearly, you must have realized that your original assessment of my abilities was so far off base that you weren't even on the same field." He holds his coffee in front of his mouth, grinning around the lid. "You can apologize any time now. I promise to be gracious about it."

"Like you were gracious about losing the Edgar Award to Patterson three years ago?" She keeps her face impassive when he chokes on his coffee, hand flying to his mouth and eyes going wide. "If stealing a police horse is your idea of displaying your graciousness, I think I'll pass."

Castle schools his features, slipping back into a mask of cool amusement. "I didn't steal, I borrowed. Without permission."

"While nude?"

He shrugs. "It was spring. And -" he raises an eyebrow - "how exactly do you know about that? The horse was in the paper but my ex-wife went to great lengths to keep the naked part quiet."

Kate takes a casual sip of her tea, the sweaty glass slipping a little in her fingers. She crosses her legs again, her right heel bouncing steadily against her calf. They stare at each other in silence for a long moment and she takes the time to really examine him. He's handsome, of course, she recognized that the first night, even through the blood. Bright blue eyes and brown hair that flops over his forehead in a rakishly youthful way, a strong jaw covered in stubble and deep laugh lines around his mouth.

There's something else, though. Something deeper. She saw it when she first came in, the relief on his face. She wants to believe that he's not as shallow as he seems. Wants to believe that the words she read last night speak not only of his skill but also to who he is, that the emotion she felt was sparked by something real. She's not sure why it matters but she wants him to be more than just a privileged jackass who will do anything to get what he wants.

Castle breaks first.

"Mysterious," he says, leaning back in his chair. "I like it. Adds to the list of questions I have for you. Like how -"

"Not here," she cuts in, shaking her head. "My place."

"Trying to get me alone, Kate?" he asks, leering at her.

She ignores him. "Tonight?"

"As much as I'd love to spend some non-violent one-on-one time with you in your hovel tonight, I can't. Prior engagement. A gentleman never cancels at the last minute."

"And you would know that how?"

"You wound me. I assure you, I'm a complete gentleman." he says, voice dropping an octave. Her stomach clenches as the low notes vibrate in her ears and Kate clenches her fingers around her cup, not willing to let him see the effect he's had on her. He's already insufferable, she doesn't need to stoke that fire. "Unless you'd rather I weren't, that is. I'm flexible."

"So am I," she says, smirking when he swallows audibly. She stands and pushes the chair back under the table. "Tomorrow?"

"Should I bring an overnight bag?"

Kate turns around without a word, walking swiftly toward the exit. She hears a chair scrape across the floor and he catches up with her just as she tosses her half-empty glass into the trash can. He stands too close, breath washing hotly over her neck.

"You forgot this." Castle taps her on the arm with the book he signed. "That's a priceless collectable now. Don't let me catch it on eBay."

She takes the book from him and walks out the door, the tiny silver bells jingling merrily. He follows her in an eerie silence, only speaking when they're about to part ways at the corner.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he says and Kate nods, turning to walk away from him. "Oh, and Kate?" She looks back over her shoulder and he grins. "If I was going to use a line on you, it'd be a hell of a lot better than coffee."

She walks away without a response, a smile she can't explain and doesn't want to think about tugging at the corners of her mouth.

* * *

Rick sighs, watching the little red bird fly across the screen and crash into a barricade. He's been sitting in her hallway for almost two hours. His ass long ago went numb, his back aches, and he's pretty sure he can hear a rat scurrying through the wall behind him. He closes out of the game and checks the time again.

Three-thirty.

They hadn't specified a time but he'd been sure she would be back by now. He'd vaguely entertained the notion that she's not coming, that she's standing him up, but had quickly dismissed it based on the fact that he's sitting outside _her_ apartment. This isn't the coffee shop, where she has the decision whether to show up or not. She has to come home at some point and she has to know that he'll still be here waiting for her.

So he waits.

Foregoing the game, he opens up his email and starts typing random bits of story and dialogue that float through his mind. He tries to capture the darkness of the hallway, the dank smell of mold and the thick air that coats his throat and sits heavily in his lungs. The words come in fits and starts, fractured sentences that he's sure he'll throw out or cannibalize when he reads them back later.

The time passes slowly, each minute seemingly longer than the last. He finally gives up on the writing after twenty minutes, admitting to himself that he's just typing nonsense. For the fifth time, Rick checks to make sure Alexis or his mother haven't texted him then puts the phone to sleep and sits in the darkness. Closing his eyes, he lets his head fall back against the wall.

Her face floats in his mind, the haunted green eyes and too serious mouth that he hasn't really stopped thinking about in weeks. He doesn't understand why he feels this pull toward her. Sure, he finds her attractive and interesting but it's more than that. He's fascinated by her, wants to know her. Not just the tragedy that made her who she is but who she was before. Wants to know how much Kate still hides under the suit and sword.

Kate.

He's had to remind himself on multiple occasions over the past thirty-six hours to stop thinking of her as Nikki. He still loves the name he gave her but he likes having the distinction now. He can separate the character from the woman, can start to build Nikki on her own. Kate is still the wireframe but now he can add the layers, mold and shape her into a character rather than a caricature.

The fire escape rattles and his eyes fly open, head snapping in the direction of the window. He can barely make out her silhouette through the layers of grime but he smiles anyway, relief loosening his chest. The window slides up haltingly, a soft groan echoing down the hallway, and the relief dissipates. She's never groaned opening the window before. Nor has she practically fallen through it.

"Kate?" Rick struggles to his feet and makes his way down the hall on tingling legs. "Are you okay?"

She's wrestling the window shut when he reaches the end of the hallway, her breath coming in harsh pants. "I'm fine," she grunts, turning toward the apartment. Her hand hovers over her left hip as she takes limping steps, her right shoulder braced against the wall. "You should go. We can do this another night."

"You're hurt," he states dumbly.

"Astute observation."

Kate stops suddenly, a sharp hiss of pain expanding her ribcage. Quickly, Rick moves forward and wedges himself between her body and the wall, bending at the knees to hook his bicep under her shoulder. His fingers meet a sticky wetness when he wraps his arm around her waist. "Are you bleeding? Do you need to go to the hospital?"

"It's fine, Castle. Let me go."

Sliding his forearm up to rest on her ribs, Rick tightens his grip and takes a step forward, pulling her gently along beside him. She huffs but lets him help her and they hobble slowly down the hallway, Kate keeping as much weight off her left leg as possible.

"At least your sword isn't stabbing me this time."

"It's still early," she grits out through a clenched jaw.

Rick laughs. "Even injured, your first instinct is to threaten me with physical harm. I think you might want to do a little soul searching about that."

They reach the door and she tries to bend over, crying out in pain when her hip flexes.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to get my keys," she says between pants, her fingers curling into her palm as she straightens.

"I'll get them."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I can do it." Her voice shakes. "Just give me a minute."

"Kate, just tell me where the keys are."

She sighs. "Pocket on my right leg."

"Now, was that so hard?" Rick lets her go slowly, making sure she's balanced with one hand against the wall before squatting down next to her. He squints at her suit in the darkness, hand hovering over her knee. "I don't see a pocket."

"Inner thigh."

Rick places his hand on her knee, sliding slowly up and around to the inside. His heart beats a little faster when his fingers finally find the zipper and Kate pulls in a sharp breath above him. He can feel the heat of her skin through the leather and closes his eyes for a moment, tries to regulate his breathing. He really shouldn't be this affected. "You know, if you wanted me to feel you up, you just had to ask. No need to get yourself injured."

"Just hand me the fucking keys, Castle."

"I like it when you curse," he says, standing up and handing her the keyring. "It's hot."

The door swings open a moment later and Rick follows her through, throwing the multiple locks as she sags into the wall. Bending over, he flips on the lamp. "What the hell happened to you?"

Kate pulls off the mask and takes a deep breath, her face pale. "It's nothing. Just a graze."

"A graze as in from a bullet?"

Blood drips on the floor when she pushes off the wall and shuffles over to the kitchen, left foot dragging heavily. Catching herself with flat palms on the counter, Kate nods.

"How did you get shot? You have a sword."

"I don't use it," she says, her tone clearly implying he's an idiot. "Not on people. Do you have any idea how much attention that would draw?"

"Then why -"

"It's for intimidation. They're terrified of it and me by extension."

Kate's elbows hit the counter and Rick jumps to catch her just as her knees give out. Supporting her weight, he stands behind her, feet planted wide. "You need to lie down."

"I'm fine. I just need to get this cleaned up."

"Our definitions of fine must be as different as our definitions of genius, then." Kate presses her palms to the counter again and lifts up, relieving him of the majority of her weight. He steps back and removes the sword, placing it carefully on the counter. "How do you get this suit off?"

"You're not undressing me, Castle."

He finds the hidden zipper on the back of the suit, pulling it down swiftly. "Yeah, I think I am. Though I had imagined this scenario playing out much differently. More moaning, fewer flesh wounds."

Rick peels the suit off her shoulders, trying not to focus on the softness of her skin under his fingertips. She finally gives in, body falling back into his chest on a pained whimper. He pulls the sleeves over her hands and lets go, the damp leather falling limply around her waist. Her stomach trembles under his palms when he turns her toward her bed.

"Get a towel."

"What?"

"I'd rather not bleed all over my sheets. Get a towel."

"Can you stand?" She nods. "Okay, where -"

"Hanging in the bathroom."

Kate sways when he steps around her. Quickly, he grabs the towel and spreads it out on her bed, throwing the loose bedclothes to the floor. Stepping in front of her, Rick cups her elbows in his palms and guides her toward the bed. Her teeth leave marks on her bottom lip when he helps her down onto the mattress. Kate rolls to face the wall, resting on her right side, and Rick goes back to the kitchen for the first-aid kit and water.

"Here." He hands her the bottle and then shakes two of the pain killers she'd given him into his palm and passes them over. She takes them without argument, water dripping down her chin as she tries to drink without moving. Rick sits on the end of the bed and slowly unties her boots, dropping them on the floor one by one. "How'd you get shot?"

"Pimp was beating one of his girls. I stopped it and he got pissed."

"Seriously, why not just stab him?"

Kate gasps when he pulls the ruined suit over her hips and shimmies it down her legs. The wound is shallow but long, spanning the width of her upper thigh. Rick hooks his fingers into the waist of her bike shorts and pulls the spandex down to her mid thigh. He trains his eyes on the wound, refusing to let them linger on the flat line of her stomach or the tempting swell of her ass.

"Because running a pimp through with my sword isn't really the way to stay under the radar."

"But it'd be really badass. You seriously never use it?"

She shivers when he runs an antiseptic wipe over her skin, cleaning off as much of the blood as he can. The flow has slowed to a trickle, the blood coagulating along the edges. Rick rifles through the bag, pulling out butterfly bandages and gauze.

"Not really." The words are slow and slurry, her tongue weighted down by the narcotics. "Too much attention. I did carve an L into a guy's ass once, though."

Rick laughs. "Why?"

"Because he was pissing me off."

"Remind me to never do that."

"Way too late for that, Ricky."

Carefully, Rick spreads antibiotic ointment over the wound before securing it with the bandages. "_Ooh_, call me Ricky again. It's sexy, in a naughty schoolboy way." He tapes the gauze to her skin and pushes the bag across the floor with his foot. Kate's breaths come in a steady rhythm and he leans over, finds her eyes closed and mouth slack. "You still with me?"

No answer. Gently, Rick pulls the bike shorts down her legs, leaving her in a pair of blue panties and a sports bra. He grabs the sheet from the floor and spreads it over her before pulling the single, flat pillow under her head. The bottle of water sweats on the floor next to the bed and he puts another one with it, knowing she'll wake up in need of fluids.

He flips off the lamp and collapses onto her couch. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he sends a text to Alexis letting her know not to worry about him and then toes off his shoes. Stretching out on the lumpy cushions, Rick turns on his side, head pillowed on his bicep, and watches her sleep.

* * *

_Thanks for reading. Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated._


	9. Chapter 9

A lancing pain in her thigh pulls her sharpley awake and Kate groans, the toes on her left foot curling tightly. Midday sunlight streams through the grimy window, dust motes dancing in the slanting beam.

Rolling over, she scrubs a hand across her face and takes a deep breath. Her head throbs, brain pulsing against her skull with every beat of her heart. She knows she needs to hydrate and stretch out her stiff muscles but the desire to stay in bed, to let herself relax and rest, holds her hostage, a heavy weight settling over her chest and limbs.

Kate reaches down and runs her fingers around the edges of the gauze, feeling for any excess heat or signs of fever in her skin. She finds none but her fingers continue their circuit, brushing lightly over her skin the way his had.

She hasn't allowed anyone to take care of her like that in a long time. Independence and self-reliance are important to her. She doesn't want to need other people, to depend on anyone but herself. Doesn't want to care. She can't. Not anymore. Needing and caring lead to loss and heartbreak and she's had more than enough of that already.

But Castle - he's breaking her rules. Has been since the night she brought him home with her, bloody and curious, questions tripping off his tongue and light dancing in his eyes. She's never brought anyone else here before. Not even Esposito. She's not naive enough to think that she's completely off the radar, that no one is aware of her location, but it's easier to maintain the illusion by not actively revealing herself. Then Castle happened.

That's really the only way to describe it, she thinks. He happened to her. Walked into her life and rocked the apple cart. No. He didn't rock it. He kicked the fucker over and danced through the mess. But she keeps letting him come back.

And she has no idea why.

She's confused by him and she hates it. Hates him for it and hates herself a little bit too. This has to stop. Now. Today. She'll thank him for last night and send him on his way, tell him she's changed her mind about helping him with his book, that she doesn't want anything to do with his attempt to capture his extended adolescence in print. Pulling in another deep breath to steel herself for the confrontation she knows has to happen, she plants her hands on the bed and sits up, wincing as the tape pulls at her skin.

The couch is empty.

Ignoring the hot flash of disappointment in her chest, Kate grabs the one of the waters from the floor and twists off the cap, draining the bottle in four long gulps and trying to push him from her mind. She'd expected him to be there but it's just as well that he's gone.

Climbing carefully out of the bed, Kate stands. Her head spins as she tries to find her balance, her ankles rocking and knees loose. Her bladder makes itself known and she walks slowly toward the bathroom, eyes scanning the apartment for anything out of place. A tangled knot of red and blue leather sits on the floor at the foot of her bed, her boots tossed haphazardly next to it. The sword rests on the kitchen counter and she touches her fingers to the tip of the handle as she passes, drawing an odd sort of comfort from the familiar feel of the rough fabric against her skin.

Flushing the toilet, she stands in front of the sink, the sickly yellow light from the single bulb above the mirror leaving her looking jaundiced and exhausted. Kate washes her hands and bends to splash water on her face, mouth tightly closed to avoid the copper tang.

Metallic rattling echoes through the tiny apartment and she jerks upright, spinning on her heel. The door knob twists and Kate bolts out of the bathroom, swallowing down a ragged cry of pain when her injured leg slams against the door frame. She reaches the counter just as door swings open, can feel fresh blood pooling under the bandage on her leg when she spins back, hand wrapped tightly around the handle of her sword.

Castle's coffee cup hits the floor with a wet smack. He holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender, a heavily loaded grocery bag bouncing off his left forearm. "Whoa," he says, voice pitching up. "It's just me."

Kate relaxes her arm. "What are you doing here?"

"I woke up awhile ago and decided to make breakfast. Unsurprisingly, you don't have any food so I went to get some." He shakes the bag, the keys hanging off his thumb jangling with the movement. Her keys. "Of course, you also don't have a working stove so I just got some donuts. And Gatorade since I figured you could use the electrolytes."

Oh.

"That was nice, Castle, but I'm fine. You didn't need stay. Or come back."

"Yeah, I did," he insists, bending over to pick up the busted paper cup. Kate can feel his eyes on her as he straightens and she flushes, suddenly remembering what she's wearing. Or, rather, not wearing. "You're bleeding."

"What?"

Castle points at her injured leg. "You're bleeding."

Kate looks down and finds a bright red stain spreading unevenly across the gauze, a sort of gory Rorschach test. "I'm fine."

"I'm really starting to hate that word," Castle says, stepping over the puddle of coffee and walking toward her. Dropping the bag on the counter, he squats and picks up the first aid kit, shaking it in the direction of the bed. "Lie down."

"Shouldn't you get home to your kid?"

"She's at school."

"Look, Castle, I appreciate everything you did last night but I really am fine. I can take care of myself."

"I know you can, Kate," he says, his eyes soft and voice gentle. Kate looks away, fixing her gaze on the wall. "But that doesn't mean you can't accept a little help from time to time. Now would you please put down the sword and get on the bed before you bleed out and I have to carry you down the fire escape? I'm not sure I have the upper body strength for that."

Kate rolls her eyes. "Stop being dramatic. It's not that bad."

"In case you haven't noticed by now, dramatic is kinda my thing."

"You don't say."

"And sarcasm is yours. Isn't it nice to have these established roles to fall back on?"

"Wash your hands," she says before placing the sword carefully on the counter. Kate limps across the room, bypassing the bed and heading for the closet. The water runs as she cracks the door open, angling her body to hide the contents, unwilling to have him see the makeshift murder board tacked to the back wall. She may have agreed to give him access but there's no way in hell she's giving him that.

"What're you doing?"

"Getting clothes," she answers, turning around with a tank top and a pair of loose cotton shorts in her hand. "I'm not going to parade around in my underwear for you, Castle."

"You could parade around naked instead."

Kate shuts the closet and glares at him, pulling the tank top over her head and yanking it down to her waist. "In your dreams."

He grins at her. "Frequently."

She fights the urge to smile, biting hard at the inside of her cheek. She hates that she's started to find his come ons slightly charming instead of entirely revolting. She also hates that she's had a couple of those dreams herself. "Keep it in your pants, big boy," she says, bracing her shoulder against the wall and leaning over. A hiss of pain rushes through her teeth when she tries to pull the shorts over her right leg, her left buckling under her weight.

Castle jumps forward and catches her by the elbow. "What are you doing?"

"Contemplating the meaning of life," she bites out, looking up at him. "What the hell do you think I'm doing, Castle? I'm getting dressed."

"No, you're falling over." Tightening his grip, Castle pulls her off the wall and directs her toward the bed, his damp fingers curling around her elbow. "Let's just change your bandage and then I'll help you with the shorts."

"I'm not a child."

"And yet you're acting like one," he says, moving his hand from her elbow to her shoulder, pushing lightly. She resists the pressure and he sighs. "Just sit down, Kate."

Without meeting his eyes, she lowers herself slowly to the bed and rolls over to face the wall. Sitting down, his hip bumping against the backs of her knees, Castle uses the edge of his right thumbnail to peel up the corner of the tape. He spreads his left hand wide over her thigh, holding the skin taut as he pulls the tape and gauze off. Kate bites her lip, forcing herself to concentrate on the pain rather than the way his hand feels on her leg, warm and strong and _good_.

She can't believe she's letting him do this. Again. Last night, she'd been lost in a haze of pain when she'd let him peel off her clothes and help her into bed. When she'd passively rolled over and allowed him to touch her, to take care of her. But her mind is clear now. She can't blame this on blood loss or pain killers. Can't write the fluttering in her stomach off as an adrenaline crash or the shiver that skitters down her spine when the light calluses on his fingers scrape across her skin as shock.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," she answers, nodding. "It's just sore."

"Let me know if I'm hurting you." He removes the butterfly bandages and tears open a fresh packet of sterile gauze, using the folded cotton to mop the blood off her leg. His left hand spans her thigh again and she wants to shake it off, wants the absent-minded swipe of his thumb to stop sending sparks shooting down to her toes. "You've got a hell of bruise," he says, reaching over her to drop the used gauze on the towel.

"Tends to happen when you get shot."

Castle finally moves his hand when he leans over to pick through the first aid kit and she lets out the shaky breath she hadn't been aware she was holding. He finishes cleaning and bandaging the wound in silence, his touch gentle and soothing. Kate lets her eyes slip closed when he presses the tape to her skin and slowly smooths his fingers around the edges, pushing out the bubbles. He touches her more than is strictly necessary, his thumb skating dangerously close to the curve of her ass. She gives herself a moment to enjoy it and then clears her throat, craning her neck to look at him.

"You done?"

Castle nods, reaching down to grab her shorts off the floor. "Roll over," he says, shaking the fabric where she can see it.

"I can do -"

"Kate." His voice is hard, teeth snapping around the t. "Roll over."

With a sigh, she rolls onto her back. Castle slips the shorts over her feet and slides them up her calves, the backs of his fingers skimming over her skin. Kate plants her feet on the bed when he reaches her thighs, pressing down and lifting her hips as he leans over her. The shorts clear her ass and she catches his eye, warmth blooming in her chest at the look she finds there. Castle runs his hands around her waist, straightening the already perfect waistband.

"There," he says, brushing lightly over her stomach one more time before removing his hands and sitting back. "Was that so hard?"

Kate cocks an eyebrow at him. "You tell me."

Laughing, Castle stands up and holds out his hands for her. "I left myself wide open for that one."

He wiggles his fingers but she ignores him, swinging her legs off the side of the bed and slowly standing up. Kate scoops up the towel and carries it to the bathroom, dropping the discarded bandages into the trash can and tossing the towel into her laundry basket. Grabbing another towel, she turns to find Castle standing directly behind her, his broad shoulders filing the door frame.

"What the hell, Castle?"

"Just wanna wash my hands again," he says, holding them up.

Kate pushes on his chest and he steps back, letting her slide past him. She tosses the towel over the puddle of coffee, pressing on the terry cloth with her toes to absorb the liquid. The water shuts off and Castle comes out of the bathroom, dragging his damp hands across his jeans.

"I would apologize for the mess," he says, grabbing the grocery bag and dropping down onto the couch, "but you were brandishing a sword at me so you're lucky coffee is the only puddle you're cleaning up right now."

With a scoff, Kate gingerly sits down on the opposite end of the couch, right leg folded under her body and back pressed against the arm. She takes the bottle of Gatorade he offers her, cracking open the lid and taking a long gulp. "Castle," she starts, putting her drink on the floor and taking a deep breath. "I don't think this is such a good idea."

"What?"

"You saw what happened last night. What I do is dangerous. Reckless."

"I know that."

"You know it but you don't _get_ it," she says, exasperation climbing up from her chest. "This isn't a comic book where the hero always finds a way out. This is real life. And I am anything but a hero. You've been beaten bloody twice already, Castle. Isn't that enough?" She meets his eye, tries not to see the shadow of hurt. "Go find your thrills somewhere else. Somewhere that won't get you killed."

Silence falls between them as they stare at one another. After a long moment, he turns to face her, pulling his left leg up onto the couch. "You still think this is about Lone Vengeance, don't you?"

"Isn't it?"

"No," Castle says, his voice quiet and serious. "This about you. _You're_ the reason I'm here, Kate."

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated. _


	10. Chapter 10

_I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for reading and supporting this story. I've had some rough patches with it and have wanted to quit more times than I can count but your reviews and encouragement have kept me pushing forward. I appreciate all of you more than I can say. _

* * *

Kate chokes down a hard gulp of air, her heart landing somewhere near her stomach. All she wants to do is run. It doesn't matter that this is her apartment, she needs to get out.

Gritting her teeth, she stands. Pins and needles shoot down her left leg and her knee buckles, sending her crashing back down onto the couch with a groan. Castle reaches out, her name too soft on his lips, and she holds out a hand, shaking her head.

"Stop."

"Kate -"

"Just stop, Castle."

Tilting her chin up, Kate closes her eyes and breathes slowly through her nose. She counts to ten four times before the pain in her leg fades back into a quiet ache. He's watching her when she opens her eyes again, concern creasing his forehead and weighting down the corners of his mouth.

"Kate," he tries again, canting his body in her direction, "Are you-"

"I think you should go," she says, trying like hell to keep the waver out of her voice.

He's here because of _her_ and she has no fucking clue what to do with that.

"You need to go," she repeats, the steel in her spine hardening with each deep breath. "I read what you sent me; you obviously have enough to write a book. You don't need me."

"Yes, I do."

"Castle."

"Just listen to me, please." There's plaintive note in his tone that borders on desperation and Kate feels her the hair on the back of her neck rise in response. "Hear me out and if you still want me to leave, I will."

She doesn't answer and Castle apparently takes her silence as acquiescence. He sucks in an audible breath, rising chest straining against the front of his t-shirt. Kate stares at him for a moment, her eyes roaming his upper body, looking away when she starts to feel an unwelcome flutter in her chest.

"You're right, I can write about a female superhero running around kicking ass and taking names based off what I know now. It'd be easy to toss together some action sequences and some sex scenes and call it done. But I don't want easy."

"I figured easy would be right up your alley," Kate says, the bite in her tone far less acidic than she'd like.

Castle looks at her, emotions playing over his face far too quickly for her to catch them all. She picks out a flicker of indignation and a half-second of hurt before he blinks himself back into a mask of cool passivity.

"I built a vacation home on that alley," he says on a hollow laugh. "But I'm pretty sure the fact that I'm sitting here demonstrates that easy has become boring for me."

"You're successful with what you already do. Why bother to try to change it now?"

"Because you were partially right in your exceedingly brusque dissection of my books. Up until now, my female characters have been a bit thin and though the damsel in distress trope might sell books, it's both limiting and tiresome." He gives her a wry little grin. "No one could ever accuse you of being a damsel but you _are_ in distress and I want to know why."

The urge to run boils up again and Kate can feel her muscles flexing, fighting the stasis she's forcing upon them. He _sees_ her; he doesn't know the details but he has her pinned and she's terrified because part of her wants to let him in. Wants to let him poke around in her life, leave his fingerprints on the parts of herself she's kept hidden for so long.

"And what? You want to study me like some caged animal? Collect your field notes and turn my life into profit?"

"No. I want to know you. You, not Lone Vengeance."

"I _am _Lone Vengeance."

Castle sighs. "Lone Vengeance is a part of you but it's not the whole of who you are. You're more than that suit and sword, Kate."

The earnest conviction in his voice makes her nervous system itch, body vibrating with the need to deflect, evade, run. She has to do something, find some outlet for the energy humming in her chest, so she reaches out for the grocery bag still sitting between them on the couch, her fingers twisting through the plastic handles.

Kate can feel his eyes on her, a hot gaze that singes her skin and leaves her feeling exposed and vulnerable. She hates the effect his honesty has on her, each traitorous twitch of her muscles getting harder to hide.

"Okay," he says resignedly, twisting to plant both feet on the floor and scooting toward the edge of the couch, "I'll go." Kate keeps her head tilted down as he stands, her gaze fixed on the ragged edges of an old cigarette burn on the cushion he vacated. "But," Castle adds, resignation replaced by resolve, "you know you're not getting rid of me this easily. I _will_ be back, Kate."

He gets halfway to the door before she speaks, the words tumbling out unchecked and without her consent.

"When I was eighteen," Kate starts, fingers still toying with the bag, the plastic crinkling far too loudly.

Castle turns back toward her and she gathers the courage to look up at him, her stomach churning nervously. His face is impassive but she can see the spark of interest in his eyes, the questions brewing just under the surface.

It makes her want to stop, to kick him out and move, make it impossible for him to find her again. But something, some twisted sense of reciprocity, stops her. He's been open with her today, has given her more honesty than she'd ever thought him capable of, and the need to give something back, to let him in just a little bit more, overwhelms her.

"When you were eighteen -" he prompts after a long pause.

Kate takes a deep breath, her fingers abandoning the handle of the bag to dive inside and pick out one of the packages of mini-donuts, the cellophane slick between her fingers. "When I was eighteen," she starts again, knowing that what she's offering isn't much but hoping that he understands it's all she can give him right now, "I was in a bit of a wild child phase."

"How wild?" Castle asks, coming back to sit on the couch. "Are we talking stealing your grandmother's cigarettes and sneaking out to drink wine coolers in the park or -"

"More like tattoos and motorcycles and boyfriends almost twice my age," Kate laughs, the knot in her chest coming loose as they start to slip back into the easy pattern of banter and sarcasm. She pushes his confession about the reason he's there, the reason he keeps coming back, to the dark recesses of her mind, willfully ignoring the persistent echo pounding in her ears.

"You have a tattoo? Where? Because I've seen pretty much all of you in the past twenty-four hours and I definitely would remember a tattoo." She raises an eyebrow, a smirk curling up the corners of her mouth when he swallows. "Oh."

"It was my senior year of high school," she says, watching the clouds clear from his eyes, "and I had just been dumped by my boyfriend -"

"What kind of idiot would break up with you?"

"Are you going let me tell this story or not?"

"Sorry." Castle picks up his own package of donuts, pulling the wrapper open and stuffing one into his mouth. "Continue," he mumbles, crumbs tumbling down onto his shirt.

Kate nods, shifting to pull her right leg up to her chest, her left still hanging off the couch. "I went a little -" she pauses - "I think crazy is probably the right word for it. It was the first time I'd really had my heart broken and I didn't know how to deal with it."

Castle makes a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat and she can't stop the thin smile from spreading across her lips.

"After about a week of crying, I decided what I needed was a change of scenery. So I pulled some money out of my bank account, got on my bike, and just started riding. Ended up in New Orleans. During Mardi Gras."

"Please tell me this is going where I hope it is.".

Kate laughs at him, letting herself get lost in the memory. "Pretty much. I discovered Hurricanes and ended up riding down Bourbon Street on a float with about twenty other incredibly drunk and topless girls."

"Topless?"

"Except for the beads."

She watches Castle's eyes drift down to her chest, his Adam's apple bobbing slowly. Taking a deliberately deep breath, Kate bites the inside of her cheek, trying not to enjoy the way he's looking at her.

It takes her by surprise how much she _wants_ him to look at her like this. As if he'd like nothing more in that moment than to devour her. She represses a shiver at the thought, blocking out the images flashing across her mind, pictures of what it would be like to let him pull her shirt over her head and press her down into the couch, let his mouth travel the path his eyes are blazing across her skin.

He snaps out of it after a moment, eyes flying back to her face. "Uh," he stutters, cheeks staining a light pink. "Your parents must not have been very happy about that."

Instantly, Kate feels herself deflate, reality crashing back in. "Yeah," she says, fighting to keep the sudden shock of pain out of her voice, "they were pretty upset."

Castle leans forward, touching the tip of his index finger to her ankle. Heat flares where his skin brushes hers and she has to resist the urge to shy away. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Castle."

Grabbing the Gatorade from the floor, Kate takes a long drink, buying time to pull herself together. Her world was rocked by tragedy over a decade ago and she's yet to find her footing. She thinks about them every day; they're the reason she lives the life she does. But it still knocks the air out of her lungs when her parents are mentioned so casually, the pain flaring from dull to acute in matter of seconds.

"Kate -"

"Castle, I'm pretty tired," she cuts in, closing herself off from the softness in his eyes and the worry in his voice. "I think I just need to lie down."

"Yeah, sure," he says, slowly running the pad of his finger down the top of her foot before checking his watch. "I should probably head home before Alexis gets back from school."

Kate gives him a tiny smile laced with gratitude. The less he pushes and prods, the more she wants to let him in. It scares the hell out of her, feeling like this about a man she barely knows, but it also sends a little thrill of excitement skittering down her spine. And, despite her best efforts, she likes it. Likes him.

Castle stuffs his garbage into the empty bag and stands, arms lifted over his head in a deep stretch. She allows herself a few seconds to look him over, casting her gaze away when he drops his arms and sighs heavily.

"When can I see you again?" he asks, turning back toward her and holding out his hand.

She takes it this time; lets him wrap his fingers around her palm, lets him help support her weight as she stands, her body swaying slightly. Finding her balance, Kate lets go and holds her hand out in front of him, palm up. "Give me your phone."

Castle pulls his phone out of his pocket, brows drawn together in a silent question. Kate quickly creates a contact under her new alias - Emily - and types in the number of her most recent burner.

"Call me in a few days and we'll arrange something." He reaches for the phone but she pulls it back. "You can't let anyone else have this number, Castle. No one can know this is mine. And you can't use it whenever you want. It's -"

"I get it," he says, plucking the phone from her hand and tucking it back into his pocket. "I'm not going to abuse your trust, Kate."

They stare at one another for a long moment and Kate becomes suddenly aware of how close they're standing. She can feel the heat radiating off his chest, can smell the woodsy bite of his cologne. Her eyes flick down to his mouth when he wets his lips, the tip of his tongue pink and tempting. The realization that she wants to kiss him, wants to press her body against his and feel his hands on her skin, hits her hard, a warm rush of arousal pooling low in her abdomen.

Shit.

Blinking, she takes a step back. "You should get home before your daughter files a missing persons report."

Castle chuckles, heat still simmering in his eyes. "She does have a tendency to panic when I'm gone for more than twelve hours."

"Well, with you for a father," Kate says, following him to the door, "who could blame her?"

"Be nice. If it weren't for me, you'd have bled to death last night."

Kate shakes her head and pushes him out into the hall. "Go home, Castle."

With nod and a wave, Castle starts toward the window, his shoes scuffing lightly over the threadbare carpet. She almost has the door closed when she hears him.

"Why'd you tell me that story?"

Swallowing, Kate pulls the door open again. Castle stands in the middle of the hallway, his face half-hidden in shadows and hands hanging loosely by his thighs. Not being able to see his face makes her uneasy, a sour feeling rolling in her stomach.

"Not exciting enough for you?"

"No, it was plenty exciting. But why _that _story? Why not the first time you rode a bike without training wheels or the time you broke your arm when you were ten or how you crashed your boyfriend's car into a tree when he was trying to teach you how to drive stick?"

"Castle -"

"You could have told me anything but you chose to tell me about the time you got drunk and rode topless in a parade. Why?"

Kate wraps her arms around her torso, fingers fisting in the thin cotton of her tank top. "You said you wanted to know me. I was - I was trying to give you something."

Castle takes a step forward, the light falling fully over his face. She can't read the expression in his eyes but it makes her want to roll her shoulders forward to protect her chest from whatever he's about to say.

"No, you weren't. You were trying to make me think you were giving me something while still holding yourself back." The words are quiet, his voice even and smooth. "Every story you have is a part of who you are but there are hundreds of others that are far more important and meaningful than that one."

He steps back again, turning slowly on his heel and walking away.

"You can lie to yourself all you want, Kate, but please have the decency to not treat me like an idiot."

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated. _


	11. Chapter 11

_Thank you to everyone who left a comment on the last chapter encouraging me to continue with this. Your support and desire to know the rest of the story means a lot to me. _

* * *

The sound of a whistling tea kettle greets him when Rick lets himself into the loft.

"Good afternoon, Mother," he says, walking into the kitchen and dropping a light kiss to her cheek.

"Where are you slinking in from this time, Richard?"

Taking the cup from her hand, Rick picks up the kettle, steam billowing up as he pours the boiling water over the teabag. "I don't slink into my own house. And aren't you supposed to be with Chet today?"

Martha waves her arms, silver bracelets jangling merrily as she perches on the edge of a stool. "I'm trying to maintain an air of mystique. Have to keep him on his toes."

"Be careful, Mother," Rick says, sliding the prepared tea across the counter and shaking his head. "Sometimes intrigue is just infuriating."

Dumping the kettle in the sink, he spins toward the refrigerator, pulling out ingredients to make a sandwich. It's after two and all he's had to eat since dinner the night before is a package of stale mini-donuts so he piles the bread with deli meat and cheese, trying to ignore his mother's curious gaze.

Though he frequently makes statements to the contrary, Rick does enjoy having her in the loft most the the time. In the year she's been living with them, he's come to recognize that for all her dramatic flair and faults, she adds a certain balance to the family. Alexis adores her and to his great surprise she's proven to be quite sage when doling out advice, solicited or not.

"Are you aware that you have blood on your pants, darling?"

Rick looks down, the mustard coated knife hanging limply in his right hand. Rust colored stains speckle his left thigh, one long stripe running along the seam. Seeing her blood, the evidence of the night and morning he spent with her, on his clothes makes his stomach turn. Sighing, he tosses the knife onto the plate and hangs his head, hands braced firmly along the edge of the counter.

"Richard?" He can hear the note of mild worry in her tone and feels a spring of warmth bloom in his chest. For all their bickering and picking at one another, he really does love his mother. "Are you okay? Is that -"

"I'm fine, Mother," he says, trying not to scoff at the word. Fine. He really is starting to hate it. "It's not mine."

"Then might I ask where you've been all night that's resulted in you coming home soaked in blood?"

Rick closes the sandwich, the rough grain of the bread leaving crumbs on the ends of his fingers, and takes a large bite. Martha sips her tea, one perfectly plucked eyebrow raised as she watches him. The lump of bread and meat sticks in his throat when he swallows, a wet knot that makes him want to gag. Dropping the sandwich, Rick fills a glass with water and takes a long drink as he leans back against the counter.

"Kate."

"Who's Kate?"

"The inspiration for my new character, Nikki Heat."

Martha puts the teacup down, the porcelain bottom clinking against the granite countertop. "You mean the young woman who runs around in a leather suit with a sword?"

Rick nods. "Don't forget the giant chip on her shoulder."

Covering the plate with plastic wrap, he puts it in the refrigerator, his appetite having apparently run off with his patience. The more he thinks about her, thinks about the way she looked at him, the way she let him touch her and take care of her, the angrier he gets. He's not sure who he's more pissed off at; Kate for opening up just enough to make him think he was getting closer or himself for being naïve enough to believe it.

He feels a pull toward her that he can't explain. There's lust and attraction and interest in her story but it's more than that. It's an itching in his palms to reach out and touch her, to feel the way her skin gives and ripples under his fingers. A constant tickle in his throat, the words he wants to say and the questions he wants to ask knotted up at the base of his tongue. A gnawing need in his gut to know her, to know _Kate_.

What makes her smile, why she doesn't drink coffee, where and how she grew up. He wants to know her embarrassing childhood stories, the ones that make her laugh nervously and avert her eyes. Inconsequential things like the name of her favorite professor and whether she likes cats or dogs; important things like what happened to put that broken and haunted look in her eyes.

He wants to know her and he's almost certain she'll never allow it.

"What happened, Richard?"

"She was shot last night and I helped her. Then this morning she -" Rick sighs. He wants to say that she lied to him but he knows that's not what happened. What she told him was the truth. He could see that. It was just - "She disappointed me."

Martha brings the tea up for another sip, speaking around the rim as she holds it in front of her mouth. "Didn't like what you saw when the mask came off then?"

Rick looks at her, sees the shrewdness in her eyes. She's testing him, pushing him into recognizing and admitting the feelings he's trying to avoid. It's been her technique since he was a child. He used to pout about how easily she could ruffle his feathers, how she could have him confessing his sins in a matter of minutes. She'd always toss her head back, laughing as she said that she knew how to find his buttons with ease because she's the one who installed them. All these years later and she still knows exactly what to say to get to him.

"It's not that simple," he defends weakly, putting his half-empty glass in the sink. The heat of the anger he's been running on since he left Kate's has begun to fade, replaced by a charred feeling of guilt and remorse. "I was open and honest with her and she didn't have the decency to respond in kind."

Martha stares at him for a long moment before shaking her head. "For such an intelligent and capable man, you certainly can be exceedingly dense."

"What?"

"Richard, did you stop to consider that it wasn't that she wouldn't be open with you but that she _couldn't_? This Kate of yours has spent the past however many years living in a mask. Clearly she's hiding or running from something. You can't bully your way into her life and expect her to immediately tell you everything."

"I know that."

He does. But knowing it doesn't stop him from desperately wanting to change it.

"Do you?" Martha slides off the stool and walks over to him. "You've been relying on your charm to get what you want for most of your life but I hate to tell you that it's not going to work this time, kiddo."

Putting her cup in the sink, she pats him gently on the cheek and walks away, turning back to look at him when she reaches the foot of the stairs. "If she's worth it - and from the look on your face I can see you think she is - then suck it up and put in the work. You can't be angry at the poor girl for something as simple and human as protecting herself."

Rick watches her ascend the stairs, her heels clacking against the wood, then turns toward the sink and flips on the water. Washing the dishes, the overly hot water scalding the backs of hands, he thinks about his mother's parting words. He know's she's right; he can't be mad at Kate for being who she is. But he also can't let go of the hurt.

He's spent years of his life in a mask too, pulling on the playboy suit to protect himself from the world that wants too much of him. He learned a long time ago to hold pieces of himself back, to let his publicist and his fans build whatever version of Rick Castle they wanted. Something about Kate made him want to take it off, made him want to slough the false skin and be the truest version of himself. And he'd been foolish enough to believe that she would feel the same.

When she came to meet him after reading the pages he wrote for her, Rick had really believed that it was a turning point. That she would stop looking at him as a jackass writer who wanted to complicate her life and understand what he really wanted. He'd spelled it out for her this morning, trading subtext and sarcasm for the simple truth. It's not about writing a book anymore, not entirely. He's in this because of her now.

But he knows he shouldn't be. Because he saw the fear in her eyes when he said it, watched her try to run from it, from him, both physically and emotionally. She's scared. That's obvious. What he doesn't know is whether she's scared of letting him see who she really is or having to face it herself. Maybe it's a little of both.

With a deep sigh, Rick leaves the kitchen and heads for his bathroom, the call of the shower too loud to resist any longer. His body aches from sleeping on her lumpy and rock hard couch and all he wants now is to let the hot water loosen the knots in his muscles and wash the grime from his skin.

Stripping off his clothes, he pulls his phone from the pocket of his jeans. He puts it on the dresser with his wallet and keys and walks away without looking back. Part of him wants to call her right now. Wants to pick up the phone and yell at her or plead with her or tell her he's done. Done trying to make her talk, finished trying to make it about more than Lone Vengeance.

Rick stands under the showerhead for a long time, chin touching his chest while the brutal spray abuses his neck and shoulders, trying like hell not to think about her.

* * *

He waits four days to call.

Four days spent actively trying to avoid anything to do with Kate or Nikki Heat. Gina's emails asking for an update go unanswered, the document on his desktop remains unopened. He spends time with Alexis and takes long walks in the park, reads a few of the books he's been sent by publishers seeking a blurb for the cover and watches the backlog of _MythBusters _episodes on his DVR. Any activity that keeps her from creeping into his head.

He loses the battle at night. Laying in his bed with the streetlights casting the room in a soft amber glow, he thinks about her. Can't stop it even though he desperately wants to. The seams of the box he's trying to put her in bulge and bust, the thoughts he keeps so tightly packaged up during the day spilling out.

It's not about the book anymore but he needs it to be. Needs to stop thinking of her as Kate and put the story back into the frame of Lone Vengeance and Nikki Heat. He tells himself he doesn't need to know her story, the reasons why she's wounded, why she refuses to let even the smallest part of herself be visible. She covers herself from head to toe as Lone Vengeance and he can't help but wonder if she realizes that she's still wearing that protective layer when the suit comes off.

He doesn't need to know. It's his new mantra, repeated again and again as he tries and fails to push her out of his mind. She's not going to let him in and he realizes that it's unfair of him to expect her to. Unfair of him to show up in her life and demand her secrets, force her to speak of whatever it is she's running from.

He's a writer. He can craft a back story for Nikki on his own. He doesn't need to know.

But he wants to.

_The cellular subscriber you are trying to reach is not available at this time. Please try your call again_.

Three times he calls; three times he gets the same message.

* * *

He gives in to temptation on the sixth day.

"Royce."

"Hey, Mike. It's Rick."

"Long time no talk, Ricky. What do you need this time?"

Rick laughs. "Why do you assume I need something? Maybe I called just because I miss the soothing sound of that sandpaper voice of yours."

"Stop hitting on me. You know I'm not that kind of girl," Royce says on a raspy chuckle, the years of cigarettes and whiskey hanging heavily in his throat. "So what is it this time? Want to spend another night in lockup for - what was it you called it? Flavor?

"No, I think I got all the flavor I'll ever need after the horse thing." He shivers at the memory. "You guys should really put some heat down in holding. Those benches are freezing."

"Naw, we like watching 'em squirm. Especially when they're drunk and naked."

"You're a sadist, Royce."

"And you're a bum. Seriously, what do you need?"

Rick pauses. He's justified this to himself dozens of times over the past week. He's doing research, same as he would for any other book, nothing more than that. It's just research.

"I'm looking for information on an ex-cop."

* * *

The file arrives by messenger the next day. Rick had been worried that the information he had - nothing more than her first name, physical description, and approximate age - wouldn't be enough to get what he wanted but Royce had known exactly who she was. Said that her exit from the NYPD had been a big story within the department at the time, speculation and rumors running rampant about why Kate Beckett, a rising star by anyone's standards, had been dismissed from her position as a uniformed officer in the Twelfth Precinct's homicide division.

Kate Beckett.

Knowing her last name makes it more real for him. Makes him feel somehow more connected to her. She's not an abstract concept anymore. She's a woman with a name and a birth date and a history. A history he's holding part of in his hand.

Rick drops the file on his desk, eyes catching on her name scrawled across the manilla tab in Royce's messy handwriting. He'd been certain that this was his only option to get the answers he needs. Because he does need them. He needs to know what happened to her so he can stop obsessing about it. So he can put her out of his mind and focus on his writing.

He needs to know so he can understand her.

But now that he has the file, now that the information is literally at his fingertips, he can't do it. A hot band of guilt constricts his chest, making him fight for every breath. He told her he wouldn't abuse her trust. Looked her in the eye and promised not to betray her. And if he opens the file, he'll be breaking that promise.

No, he broke it the moment he decided to call Mike Royce.

With a sigh, Rick jerks out of the chair, the wheels rattling loudly as they hit the hardwood. He sticks the file under a book on the corner of his desk and walks out of the room, hoping that perspective will come with distance.

It's after noon so he heads to the kitchen to grab some lunch, tossing a bowl of leftover pasta in the microwave. He jots down various items on the grocery list attached to the side of the refrigerator while he waits. The doorbell rings just as he finishes the word lettuce, the sudden and unexpected sound sending his hand careening across the pad.

She's looking at her feet when he opens the door, the end of her ponytail hanging down over one shoulder, hands shoved deeply into the pockets of her lightweight jacket.

"Kate?"

She looks up at him slowly, the corners of her mouth curling up into a tiny, sheepish smile.

"Hey, Castle. Can I come in?"

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated. _


	12. Chapter 12

If she wasn't so nervous Kate might laugh at the way his mouth hangs half-open, Adam's apple bobbing as he chokes around whatever words are crowded in his throat. But she _is_ nervous. So much that it's taking everything she has not to blurt out that this was a mistake and bolt down the hallway.

Coming to him, putting herself into his space, his world, might be one of the dumbest decisions she's ever made. But reading his face, seeing the elation that underscores the shock, it feels right to do this. To try to give him something. To explain.

She hasn't really stopped thinking about him since he walked away from her a week ago. About the look on his face or the hurt in his voice when he called her out, when he shocked her with the depth of his understanding of how she operates.

The week stumbled by slowly for her, unable to spend time on the street, the leather of her suit too tight against her still bruised skin. She sat in front of her closet instead, staring at the murder board on the back wall. The longer she sat, the guiltier she felt. And she's not even sure why. She doesn't owe him anything, not her past or her secrets. But she _wants_ to share it with him and that scares the hell out of her.

"You gonna make me stand out in the hall all day?"

Castle's mouth snaps shut finally and he shakes his head, stepping out of the way and waving her into the apartment with the hand not still fisted around the doorknob. "Sorry," he says sheepishly, "Come in."

Crossing the threshold, Kate takes in her surroundings, eyes slowing scanning his apartment. She'd expected it to be nice but the reality of it, the sleek lines and warm tones, the life she can feel beating just under the surface, makes her breath catch. This is a _home. _

"I was just about to have some lunch. You want some?"

It surprises her that he doesn't immediately go for the obvious question. The question she knows has to be rolling through his mind, the same question she's asking herself over and over, even though she knows at least part of the answer.

_Why are you here?_

"Sure. Thanks."

Castle nods too many times and walks into the kitchen, pulling a plastic container out of the refrigerator. "Pasta okay?" he asks, already spooning some into a shallow bowl and putting it in the microwave.

"Yeah, pasta's great."

Kate takes off her jacket and hat, putting them on the seat of one of the stools that line the kitchen island. She wonders if this is how he is with his daughter, dancing around in the kitchen, making sure she's taken care of. She likes thinking of him that way. Likes it maybe a little too much. The microwave beeps and she jerks herself out of her imagination, focuses back on the issue at hand. She can't allow herself to be distracted. Not if she wants to make it through this.

Sliding the bowl and a glass of water in front of her, Castle sits on the stool on the other side of the one where she placed her things. Even though she showed up unannounced on his doorstep he's not making assumptions or pushing her for more the way she'd expected him to and a hot spike of affection pierces her ribs at the space he's giving her, how he's waiting for her to take the lead in this.

"Eat," he says, picking up his fork and giving her a gentle smile.

They eat in an awkward silence, the questions she knows he wants to ask and the things she wants to tell him hanging heavily in the air between them. Kate picks at the food, anxiety making her stomach feel knotted and full. She can feel him casting glances at her with increasing frequency and finally she sighs, dropping the fork and pushing the bowl away.

"You done?" Kate nods and he stands, collecting the dishes and carrying them over to the sink. "So," he says and she takes a deep breath, readying herself for the onslaught. "How's your leg?"

"Castle."

He turns around, his face carefully blank. "What?"

"Just ask the question."

"That was a question."

Kate sighs, frustration simmering in her veins. "The one you really want the answer to," she says in a low voice.

"I do really want the answer to that one. I was worried about you screwing up my skillful patch up job."

"Damn it, Castle."

He stares at her for a moment before pushing off the counter and walking out of the kitchen. "Come on."

Kate follows him into the living room, sitting down on the end of the couch. The leather gives under her weight, cradling her, and she almost wants to curl up, let the cool softness soothe the nervous heat burning through her skin. Castle sits on the opposite end, his body angled to face her, eyes curious and bright.

"Alexis is at school -"

"I know."

Castle cocks his head. "You know?"

"I would never just show up when your kid was home, Castle. I waited until I was certain she wouldn't be here."

He nods. "You didn't have to do that but thanks." He smiles at her and Kate pretends her heart doesn't flip a little at the genuine gratitude carved into the corners of his mouth. "Anyway, she's not here and neither is my mother so you don't have to worry about interruptions."

His mother? She wants to ask about that, wants to know why she lives with them. It surprises her a little, the desire to know things about him. To know how he lives his life, what he does when he's not trying to claw his way into hers. But this isn't about her curiosity. Not today.

"Castle." She says his name as gently as she can, hoping he understands. What she's about to do is hard. It's going to be painful. But she needs him to know that she's doing it willingly, that she's not going to run away or shut him out. "Ask me."

Looking her in the eye, he finally does. "Why are you here, Kate?"

She takes a deep breath, fighting hard against the urge to look away. "Because you were right."

"I quite frequently am," he says on a grin and Kate rolls her eyes, grateful for the break. "You're gonna have to be a little more specific."

Kate swallows, staring at her hands twisted together between her knees. "About me being a cop, about something happening in my life that drove me into it. About being disillusioned by the justice system I thought failed me." Kate looks at him again, feels like she owes it to him to say the next part to his face. "About holding back while trying to give the illusion that I'm not. About me lying to myself."

"Lying to yourself about what?"

Kate slips off her shoes and lifts her legs up onto the couch, wincing a little when the still healing injury makes itself known. Pulling her knees up, she wraps her arms loosely around her shins and leans into her thighs. She wants to tell him this but the urge to protect herself is too strong to resist.

"About a lot of things but mostly about not being okay. I haven't really been okay in over ten years."

Castle stays silent, his face soft and hands resting loosely in his lap. It comforts her somehow, this calm openness of his, and she takes a shaky breath, preparing herself.

"It happened when I was nineteen," she starts, her eyes locked on his left shoulder, unable to make herself meet his gaze for this. "I was home from college on winter break. My parents were pretty insistent on me spending most of my time with them, wanting to take advantage of as much of my break as possible."

Kate pauses, an airy sound that might be a laugh caught in the throat. "Of course, I was a complete brat about it, pouting and whining about how I should be out having a good time with my friends, not stuck at home with my parents. By the end of break, my mom had apparently had enough. The night before I was supposed to go back to school, she gave in. Kissed me on the cheek after dinner and told me to go have fun."

She risks a glance at his face, finds him still watching her intently. Looking away again, she continues, needing to get it finished now that she's started. It's been ten years and she's never willingly told this story, not even to the therapist she was forced into seeing. It's time.

"I found their bodies when I came home that night. My dad was on the living room floor, his back toward the door." Kate closes her eyes, the images from that night flashing across her mind as clearly as if it were yesterday. "It was dark so I didn't see the blood until I was standing over him. Gunshot wound to the head," she states as matter of factly as she can. "I found my mom in their bed, stabbed."

Kate wipes at her cheeks, smudging the few tears that managed to break free. She's thankful for Castle's continued silence, for the lack of empty apologies for her loss. Taking long, deep breaths, she calms herself and opens her eyes, finally meeting his.

The way he's looking at her steals the breath she so carefully pulled in. The softness in his eyes, the understanding, the unmistakable caring and concern - it makes her feel vulnerable. Exposed. Almost makes her want to take it all back and pretend she never met him. She doesn't want to feel this way.

But the way he waits her out, lets her do this at her own pace and in her own way, pushes her forward. She's come this far, farther than she's been since the night she gave a hysterical statement to a cold detective, and she wants to finish. Has to.

"It took the police less than twenty-four hours to write it off as a murder-suicide. They didn't even try to investigate it, no matter how many times I insisted that my parents had a happy marriage, that my dad hated guns and would never have done this." Anger boils up in her chest, a searing heat that fists her hands and hardens her voice. "They said it was open and shut. That there was no evidence of anyone else in the house, nothing missing or displaced. To them it was obvious what happened that night. But they were wrong."

"And that's when you decided to become a cop." His voice startles her and Kate jumps, knees bumping against her chest. Castle holds out a hand in apology, "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't," she says, forcing lightness into her tone. "That's just the longest you've ever been quiet. I thought maybe you'd gone mute."

Castle smiles at her and she feels her lips curl at the corners in response. This is better. "No such luck."

"Can't win 'em all."

A comfortable silence falls between them and she breathes it in, lets the anxiety and anger and grief fill her lungs for just a moment before pushing it all out.

"The decision to become a cop came later," Kate says, relaxing her muscles and loosening her hold on her legs. She doesn't need the shield anymore. "I took a semester off while I dealt with the funerals and their estate, trying to decide what to do with the house and their stuff. Both my parents were lawyers so I had help but it was a lot to handle."

Castle hums, a low sound that echoes in her ears. "I can't imagine."

"Something you can't imagine? I didn't think that was possible." He smiles at her again but doesn't speak. She lets it linger for a moment and then continues, "I transferred to NYU in the fall, switched from pre-law to criminal justice, and then applied to the academy immediately after graduation."

"Because you wanted to give others the justice you never got."

Kate laughs hollowly. "No. I'm not that noble. I wanted to solve my parents' murders. It eventually became about more than that but my primary goal, the entire reason I joined the NYPD, was to find out who is responsible for their deaths."

"Then why aren't you a homicide detective right now?"

"That's a long story," she sighs, her body suddenly heavy.

"I've got time."

"Castle."

He stares at her and she can see it in his eyes that he wants to push her, that he wants all the answers to all of his questions immediately. He doesn't want to wait until she's ready to dole out another piece of her past. But he's going to have to.

"Another day, then."

"Thank you," she says, trying to make sure he can hear the depth of her gratitude in just two words.

Castle just nods. "Do you want a glass of water?"

"That'd be great. My mouth's a little dry."

He winks at her. "It's from all that open-mouthed staring at me. Subtlety is not your strong suit, Kate Beckett."

An icy fist grips her heart when he stands and walks toward the kitchen.

She trusted him.

"Castle."

"Hmm?"

"How do you know my last name?"

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated._

_For those wondering how she knows where he lives, she looked in his wallet back when she rescued him in chapter four. _


	13. Chapter 13

_Shit_.

Rick freezes, his right arm suspended in mid-air in front of the cabinet, fingers hovering over the brushed silver handle. A deafening silence falls behind him and his hearing tunnels, the ambient noise fading out and leaving him disoriented.

He cannot believe he was so fucking stupid.

"Castle."

The sound of her voice breaks the seal and the world expands again, too loud noises assaulting him from every angle. Rick drops his arm and turns to face her, stomach churning.

"How do you know my last name?" She repeats the question in a clipped tone, each word forcefully punctuated and brimming with anger.

"I -" Rick stutters, his brain trying to catch up, desperately searching for the right words to explain this. Honesty. He needs to be honest. "I made a phone call."

Even with the distance separating them, he can see her jaw clench. "To whom?"

"An old friend. At the NYPD."

Kate stares at him, her eyes narrow and mouth tight. This is bad. Really bad. The file in his office taunts him, reminding him of his miscalculation; that he underestimated her, didn't give her enough credit. That he broke the small amount of trust she'd placed in him.

"You knew. You knew everything I just told you and you let me sit here and -"

"No." Rick jerks forward, the roots binding him to the middle of his kitchen floor snapping. He strides quickly back to the couch, the need to correct her assumption driving him. "I didn't know, Kate. I got the file just before you showed up but I didn't open it. I couldn't."

She looks up at him, her face set in stone. "You have a_ file_ on me?"

He nods.

"Let me see it."

"Kate -"

"Give it to me, Castle."

He walks to his office and grabs the file from his desk, only taking his eyes off her when he absolutely has to. She has her shoes on and is standing next to the couch when he gets back, the folder clasped tightly in his right hand. Kate reaches for it but he doesn't give it to her, keeps it pressed tightly against his thigh, the sharp edges of the cover cutting into his palm.

"Let me explain."

"There's nothing to explain, Castle. This is what you do. What you want matters more than anything else and you'll do whatever you have to to get it." Kate lets out a humorless laugh, crossing her arms. Shutting him out.. "I really should have expected this."

"I didn't think I was going to see you again."

"And that made it okay to call some cop buddy of yours to get information about me? You thought you weren't going to see me again so you didn't think it mattered because you wouldn't get caught?"

"No." Rick sighs, sitting down on the couch. "I didn't think I'd see you again and I wanted to know why."

Kate remains standing, her body almost vibrating with anger. She's pissed as hell at him and he knows it but she's still here. She's still standing in his living room, waiting for answers. He knows she could have overpowered him, could have taken the file and been halfway down the block by now.

She's still here and that gives him hope.

"And now you do. You have a tragedy you can exploit in your book, a nice little fucked up origin story for Nikki. You got what you wanted now give me the folder so I can leave."

Rick tosses the file on the coffee table and looks up at her. "There. Take it. But this isn't just about the book and you know it. I told you that."

"You mean that bullshit line about you wanting to know me and not Lone Vengeance? This -" she points at the file still sitting on the table - "pretty much negates that claim."

"It wasn't a line, Kate." He lets his voice go soft on her name and she blinks slowly, a hairline crack forming in her mask. "It was the truth. It still is the truth."

"Bullshit or not," Kate says, dismissal in her voice, "it doesn't give you the right to dig up my past."

His frustration boils over and Rick stands up, turning to face her, his hands in loose fists at his side. "Like you dug up mine?"

Kate's eye widen for a fraction of a second, her biceps flexing as she pulls her arms more tightly to her chest. "I -"

"Don't." Rick holds up his hand, stalling whatever denial she's about to throw at him. "The horse thing. I told you that my ex-wife went to a lot of trouble to keep the nudity out of the press. The only way you could have known that was if you had access to the police report. So, what'd you do? Call an old pal at the NYPD and have them pull _my_ file?"

"That's different."

"How?" He knows there's a difference. He does. But in this moment it doesn't matter. He's pissed and trying to make a point, however shaky it may be. "You poked around in my life, my past. How is it that any different from what I did? "

"You were _stalking_ me, Castle," she spits out, the words laced with venom. "You were following me around for weeks, putting yourself in danger and randomly showing up at my place. I was trying to determine whether or not you were psychotic." Kate takes a step toward him, her eyes blazing. "You were just trying to satisfy your curiosity so you can write your damn book. Because it's what you wanted and that was the only way you thought you were going to get it. _That's_ the difference."

The knot in his chest tightens. She's not entirely wrong. He did think it was the only way he was ever going to get the information. But it was more than that. More than research, more than curiosity

"This -" he mimics her earlier action and thrusts a finger at the file on the table - "isn't about the book. It's about _you_." Rick lowers his voice, finishing softly, "I want to help you."

Kate stares at him in silence then spins on her heel, stalking into the kitchen. Yanking on her jacket and hat, she heads toward the door. "I don't need your help, Castle," she says, her voice quiet and raw. "I didn't ask for it and I don't want it."

Rick jogs over, putting his body between her and the door. Pushing her is a stupid risk that will most likely blow up in his face but he won't let her leave like this. He can't. He does want to help her. Now that he knows what happened to her, why she closes herself off and hides from the world, he has to. He wants her to have the answers to her questions, the peace she deserves. The realization of just how much he wants to give her those things hits him hard, knocks air out of his lungs and the fight out of his spirit.

He wants her to be happy. Wants to _make_ her happy.

"I called you three times," he says, changing tactics. Trying to draw her out again. "Why didn't you answer?"

Kate folds her arms around her stomach, shoulders rolling forward as she stares at some random point just beyond his left ear. "I was trying to decide whether or not I could trust you with this. Clearly, I picked the wrong option."

Taking a small step forward, Rick holds up his hands. "You _can_ trust me, Kate," he says softly. "I made a stupid mistake and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I went behind your back and I'm sorry I violated your privacy." Her shoulders drop just a fraction and he digs in, shoving his fingers into the tiny crack in the wall, trying to pry it open by sheer force of will. "But I can help you. I want to help you."

"Castle -"

"Just think about it," he says, cutting her off and stepping to the side, clearing her path to the door. "You have my number. I'm here. Any time."

Kate sways almost imperceptibly, weight shifting back and forth on her ankles for a moment before she steps forward. She doesn't look back or speak as she leaves, just pulls open the door and walks out, the quiet snick of the latch echoing far too loudly behind her.

Rick sighs and goes back to the living room, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes as he drops down onto the couch. He screwed that up. Royally. Dropping his hands into his lap, he stares at the ceiling, replaying the last hour in his head.

Questions flood his mind but the one he needs answered most right now is why. Why did she come? What made her decide to take off the armor, even for just a few minutes, and let him see her? Not the vigilante or the former cop; not the badass with a vendetta. _Her_. Kate. A woman with a broken heart and far too much pain in her eyes.

He wants to know why but he's pretty sure that's not going to happen now. She was letting him in and then he had to open his damn mouth and ruin it.

Leaning forward, Rick lets his eyes fall on the coffee table, to the file still laying where he tossed it. She left without it and he doesn't know why. He wants to open it up, devour the pages and learn as much about her as he can. He wants to know the details of her parents' murders that she left out and why she's no longer a cop; wants to find out if and how the two are connected.

He wants to fill his head with the story of Kate Beckett, memorize the pages in the file from front to back, immerse himself in her.

But he doesn't.

Rick picks up the file and carries it into his office. Keying the code into the safe hidden in the floor under his desk, he puts the file inside, unopened. He won't betray her trust again, even if she'll never know it.

* * *

He gets a text three days later. It's nothing more than an address and a time but it's from her and it's more than he ever expected.

Rick plugs the address into his GPS immediately, heart hammering in his chest. He's going to see her. She's letting him back in. And he'll be damned if he's going to mess it up again.

* * *

_Thanks so much for reading. Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated. _

_Also, there may be a bit of a delay on the next chapter. I'm moving this week and I'm not sure I'll have much time to write. Thanks for your patience._


	14. Note

I want to thank everyone who has reviewed, followed, faved or just read this story. I appreciate the support and encouragement more than I can express. I wanted to let you all know that the story is going to be on hiatus for the foreseeable future. I have a lot of stuff going on in my personal life right now and am simply unable to write. It's not for lack of trying, I assure you. The words just aren't there. I hope they come back and that I'm able to finish this story because I really do want to tell it but for right now I just have to step away. I'm sorry and I hope you can understand.

Thank you all so much for embracing me and my stories. I will forever be grateful for that.

Jenny


	15. Chapter 14

_Thanks so, so much for your patience. _

* * *

_Where we left off: Kate took a leap and told Castle about what happened to her parents after which Castle promptly screwed it all up by inadvertently revealing that he had called an old friend at the NYPD and had a file of information about her. Kate left and Castle thought he'd never see her again. Two days later she texted him an address and a time. _

* * *

Rick rocks back on his heels in the dim hallway, attempting to look as inconspicuous as possible. He's been standing in the same spot for at least three minutes and he knows he has to have drawn someone's attention by now. He needs to knock but he can't. The uncertainty about what might be waiting for him on the other side of the nondescript brown door holds him in place, knotting his hands into useless fists against his thighs.

He tripled checked the address Kate texted him before he left the loft. Checked it twice more on the way over. Countless scenarios have played out in this mind over the last twenty-four hours, some of them vibrantly detailed imaginings of his grisly murder at her hands, others entirely unrealistic and overly romanticized visions involving his lips and her bare skin. But walking into this building, making the trek up four flights of stairs to stand outside apartment 4F, he's well aware that nothing he's come up with is even close to being reality.

The need for answers eats at him but the fear of the unknown holds him back. He's not used to this feeling; looking before leaping has never been his style. He runs head first over the edge of the cliff, thoughts of what might happen when he hits the ground the last thing on his mind.

But it's different with her now. The urge to force his way in, to make her open up, still sits solidly in his chest but it's tempered by trepidation. The worry that if he pushes too hard, too quickly, all he'll succeed in is driving her away and that is the last thing he wants.

Rick stumbles back when the door suddenly swings open, the bright light from inside the apartment making him blink rapidly. A bulky body fills the frame, casting a long, thick shadow over the the carpeted hallway.

"You just gonna stand out in the hall like a dumbass all night?"

"Um - I'm, uh," Rick stutters, trying to focus on the man's face and not the handgun holstered on his hip. "I'm looking for Kate?" He really didn't mean for it to come out as a question.

The man stares at him, temples bulging out as he clenches his jaw. "I know," he huffs, stepping out of the way and waving Rick inside.

It's a modest but nice apartment, an obvious bachelor pad; giant television, multiple gaming consoles, no decorations other than a set of bull horns mounted over the leather couch. The leather couch where Kate sits tucked into one corner, legs pulled up onto the cushion, calves crossed and feet folded under her bent knees.

She's comfortable here.

Even though he knows it shouldn't, the realization stings. It shouldn't matter to him that she's familiar enough with this place to let her guard down. That she apparently trusts the man he assumes lives here enough to relax, her body open and loose in a way he's not seen before.

The wariness written on her face when she looks up from the folder resting in her lap contradicts the relaxed lines of her neck and shoulders. She might be comfortable in this space but she's still unsure, still distrusting. Of him.

"Kate."

He wants to say more. Wants to tell her about the file, how he put it away without looking, without further betrayal. He wants to apologize again, tell her he's sorry until the shadows in her eyes recede and she looks at him like she did that afternoon sitting on his couch, her face soft and readable. Trusting.

He wonders if she'll ever look at him like that again.

"Castle," she says, avoiding his eyes and inclining her head toward the burly man still standing by the front door, his shoulder pressed against the industrial white wall. "Esposito. Esposito, Castle."

Esposito pushes off the wall and walks into the living room, giving Rick a nod as he sits down on the opposite end of the couch from Kate. Disappointment humming in his chest, Rick moves over the armchair, pulling off his jacket and laying it over the back before he sits. "Nice to meet you," he says, not bothering to offer his hand for a shake he knows won't be returned.

"Yeah." Esposito grabs a half-empty beer from the coffee table, the sweaty glass leaving a puddle on the light brown wood. Pinching the neck of the bottle between his thumb and first two fingers, he tips the bottom toward Rick. "You want one?"

Rick shakes his head, eyes never leaving Kate. She still won't look directly at him, keeping her gaze trained on the open file spread across her lap. "Thanks but I'm good."

An awkward lull falls over them as Esposito take a long pull from his beer, the sound of liquid sloshing against glass far too loud. He want so very badly to ask about the files, why he's here. Why she asked him to come to a stranger's house only to sit in silence and do everything she can to avoid looking at him.

He tries again. "Kate -"

"Esposito is a homicide detective at the Twelfth Precinct," she cuts him off, her voice carefully modulated, void of detectable emotion. "He called me two days ago about a case he thinks -" She pauses, eyes falling shut in a slow blink. "A case related to my parents."

Rick stays quiet, lets her continue how and when she's ready. He's not pushing her. Not tonight.

Pulling in a deep breath, Kate runs her fingers over the open pages of the file in her lap before finally looking at him. "Three days ago, a man named Jack Coonan was found murdered in his apartment. He had been stabbed twelve times in the back and abdomen. Coonan was an enforcer for the Westies -"

"Irish mafia," Rick says, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his thighs. "Right?"

"Yeah. They deal in guns and stolen cargo, sometimes prostitution, but apparently draw the line at drugs." Kate scoffs, eyes rolling back in disgust. "It was Coonan's job to keep it out of their territory. Two weeks ago, he went to the FBI and tried to turn state's evidence about a local heroine ring. They didn't bite."

"Why?"

"He didn't have proof. Coonan said he knew who was behind it but wouldn't give a name until he was guaranteed protection. The Feds wouldn't talk to him without something to corroborate his claims."

"So the Westies killed him for trying to flip? How does that -"

"It wasn't the Westies," Kate says, ponytail swinging as she shakes her head. She looks exhausted, the dark circles under her eyes standing out starkly against her pale skin. As stupid as he knows the question to be, he wants to ask if she's okay. Wants to pull her up against his chest and hold onto her until she is.

"Then who?"

Kate tosses the file onto the coffee table, the slick manila folder landing with a smack against the pile of others just like it. "Coonan's girlfriend gave Esposito and his partner information about the drug ring that eventually led them to Johnny Vong -"

"'I own a boat' Johnny Vong?"

A tiny smirk flits across her lips. "Yeah. He was in bed with the Latin Kings, another gang." Rick nods. Copious amounts of research over the years have left him with a working knowledge of the assorted criminal organizations of New York City. "Vong's employer smuggled the heroine into the country in the DVD cases for his real estate scam and the Latin Kings distributed it. It was working for them just fine until one of the junior members started selling in Westie territory."

"Which is what led Coonan to the Feds and ultimately his death."

"It took awhile but Espo," she inclines her head toward the other end of the couch, "was able to get Vong to give up the name of his employer. Dick Coonan, Jack's brother."

"Coonan was killed by his own brother?"

"According to Johnny Vong, he was killed by an assassin hired by his brother. Ex-military ghost goes by Rathborne."

Rick cocks his head to the side, fingers laced together between his knees. "Okay. It's a good story but I'm still not seeing how this is connected to your parents."

The flicker of light that had sparked in Kate's eyes while relaying the tale of the Coonan brothers dies instantly. She drops her chin, arms folding around her stomach and her eyes landing somewhere near his left knee. "Esposito saw it when the Medical Examiner was going over the autopsy results with him."

Without further explanation, Kate picks up the file sitting on the empty cushion in the middle of the couch and holds it out for him. Two photos line the sides of the folder, the graphic details glossy under the overhead lights. Holding the file loosely, Rick examines the pictures, tries not to let his gaze linger too long in one place. He knows what this is, what this means. He should have figured it out earlier.

Rick looks over at Esposito, addressing him directly. "You're sure?"

"Yeah. I've seen that," Esposito points at the picture on the right side of the file, the one with the slender waist and flared hips, the pale skin marred by jagged wounds and dark bruises, "enough to know but I had the ME take a cast of Coonan's wounds just to be certain. It was a match."

"So, this Rathborne -"

"Murdered my parents," Kate finishes, meeting his gaze for the first time.

Rick can see the determination on her face, her mouth a thin line and her cheeks stained pink with anger. But he also sees the fear. Sees the grief glistening in the corners of her eyes, the tight bob of her throat as she swallows back the emotions she refuses to let herself express.

His heart aches for her.

"So, he says refusing to look away, to break their connection, "what do we do now?"

* * *

Castle closes the folder in his hands and puts it back on the table, fingers immediately moving to pick up another. Brow furrowed and shoulders set, he starts to read, left leg bouncing with nervous energy. He insisted on looking through the files for himself; said he needed to see it, needed to be able to plot the map in his mind.

She's been watching him for half an hour, silently observing the way he handles the files, a reverence in his touch even as his eyes fly over the pages, devouring the pictures and words.

Devouring her.

Telling him about the murder of her parents was difficult but giving him this, letting him have unfettered access to the details of that night - her body aches with the urge to rip the files from his hands. She doesn't want him to look at the grotesque pictures of her mother's blood spreading across the bedroom floor or the clinical close-up of her father's glassy eyes and open head wound. She doesn't want him to read her statement, to see her fragility and anguish spelled out for him in black and white.

Willingly sharing this part of her life - herself - isn't something she's done before. She's never talked about it in any kind of detail outside of therapy, both voluntary and mandated. Has never told the story much less allowed someone to see all the gory details for themselves. Esposito went behind her back all those years ago, pulling files he had no right or authority to look at, and it had nearly ended their friendship; she didn't speak to him for almost three months after she found out what he'd done.

And now, Castle. Three days ago she was storming out of his apartment, furious and betrayed. Hurt. She'd decided before she even hit the street that night that she was done with him. Didn't need or want him in her life. But here he sits, his body folded in half and the corners of his mouth pulled down in concentration as he reads file after file, because she called him. Because she wanted him here.

He wants to help and even though it goes against every instinct she has, she's going to let him. Because she trusts him. She's still pissed at him but, for reasons she can't fully explain, she does trust him.

The refrigerator door thumps shut with a rattle and Esposito comes back into the room, three beers dangling from his fingers. He knocks the bottom of one against Castle's shoulder to get his attention and passes the other to Kate before he sits. Castle puts the last file on top of the pile on the coffee table and then leans back in the chair, rolling his neck.

"We need Coonan," he says, tipping his beer back for a quick sip.

"No shit, Sherlock," Espo snorts, "but we ain't gettin' him."

"Why?"

"He wants full immunity on the drug charges," Kate says, trying to ignore the growing sense of futility spawning in her chest, "and the DA is willing to work with him but only if he produces Rathborne."

Castle looks between Kate and Esposito, forehead bunched in confusion. "That sounds simple enough. What's the problem?"

"The problem is that he wants a hundred grand," Esposito answers.

"A hundred grand? For what?"

"Rathborne is a contract killer," Kate explains, picking at the loose label on her beer with the side of her thumbnail. "We'd have to set up a hit to get him out in the open and apprehend him. Coonan has the contact information but there's no way the city is going to put up that kind of money."

"I'll do it."

Her eyes jerk to his face, heart stuttering. "What?"

"I'll put up the money," Castle says, eyes locked on hers.

"I can't ask you to do that."

"You didn't. I offered."

"I -"

"This is the first real lead you've ever had. You can't let it slip through your fingers." He slides forward on the chair, voice dropping low. "Let me help you, Kate. Please."

Air hangs in her chest, choking her. She can't hear anything but the arrhythmic pound of her heart and the echo of his words. He wants to help; she wants to _let_ him help. It's why she called him. But this - this is too much. She can't let him do it, can't let herself be beholden to him.

"Just let him do it," Esposito says, a gentleness in his voice that makes her want to hit him. "You know we need it. It's not going to happen any other way."

Closing her eyes, Kate takes a deep breath. Nods. "Okay."

When she looks up again, Castle is already out of his chair and shrugging on his jacket. "I'm gonna head home and check my accounts. I'll call my banker first thing in the morning. How do I get in touch with you, Detective?" He takes the card Esposito hands him, pushing it into the front pocket of his jeans. "I'll call you as soon as I talk to Frank."

Esposito nods. "Lookin' forward to it."

Kate stands up when he turns to leave. Ignoring the way Esposito smirks at her, she follows Castle to the door, catching the elbow of his jacket just as he pulls it open. Her breath catches when he looks back at her, his eyes soft and - no. She's not going there.

"I'll pay you back."

Castle sighs. "No, you won't. Just let me do this, okay? It's the only thing I _can_ do."

"This isn't why I called you, Castle. I'm not - I wasn't -"

"I know. I know you're not using me for my money, Kate." A smile breaks across his face. "You can feel free to use me for my body, though."

Kate rolls her eyes. "Jackass." Without letting herself think about it, she slides her hand down his forearm, grips his fingers with her own. "Thank you," she breathes, looking up at him. "Rick - Thank you."

Castle squeezes her fingers, leaning down to press a kiss to her cheek. "I'll call you in the morning."

She nods and leans against the doorframe, watching him walk down the hallway until he rounds the corner out of sight. With a sigh, Kate closes the door, turning around to find Esposito grinning at her from the couch.

"I guess we're not hooking up anymore, huh?"

"Shut up," she huffs, slapping him on the back of the head as she walks past. Flipping on the television, she tosses him a controller and settles back into the corner of the couch. "Let's blow some shit up."

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated. _


	16. Chapter 15

Conversations, bodies moving, the ringing of telephones and the shuffling of papers; Rick takes it all in, tries to absorb the atmosphere through his skin. He hasn't spent much time in police stations, outside of the few nights he's spent in the drunk tank, and he's fascinated. The sounds, the sights. The way the room almost hums around him. He forgets for a moment why he's there and just observes.

The rough voice of the desk sergeant pulls him out of his head. "You can go up." He hands Rick a visitor's badge and directs him to the elevator, sending him up to the fourth floor. Homicide.

He shouldn't be excited. He shouldn't be bouncing on the balls of his feet as the ancient elevator claws its way up, shouldn't have a hundred questions swirling in his brain, each one fighting for dominance. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Rick forces himself to calm down. To take a deep breath and remember why he's here.

The elevator dings, doors opening onto a bustling hallway, the chatter louder and more urgent than downstairs. He looks around for a moment, the giddiness rising up in his chest again. Uniformed officers move around the floor, a ping pong game of blue that has him entranced. He watches them, watches how they carry themselves, notes how their straight spines and set shoulders give them a sense of gravity, importance.

A female officer walks past him, hand locked tightly around the forearm of a burly man in handcuffs.

"Excuse me?"

The officer turns back to look at Rick, jerking the man to a stop beside her. Her eyes flick down to the visitors badge stuck to the front of his jacket before she answers. "Yeah?"

"Do you know where I can find Detective Esposito?"

"He's in with the captain right now." She jerks her head to the left, indicating a row of identical and unoccupied desks. "You can wait over there by his desk."

Rick nods. "Thank you, Officer -"

"Vasquez," she says, jerking on the beefy arm in her hand again as she turns away from him.

Rick mutters another thanks to her retreating back and makes his way over to the row of desks. He finds one with a nameplate declaring it as Esposito's and leans against the edge, eyes skittering around the room again. There's a tension in the air that tugs at him, makes him want to wander around, poking his fingers into anything that looks interesting.

"Can I help you?"

A young man steps up beside him, his eyes narrow and assessing. Rick gives him a smile and extends his hand. "Rick Castle.".

"Detective Ryan," he says, shaking Rick's hand. "What can I do for you, Mr. Castle?"

"I'm just waiting to speak to Detective Esposito," he explains, waving at hand at the desk he's still propped up against. "As for what you can do for me, I wouldn't say no to watching an interrogation. Oh! Can I be in a line up? I've always wanted to do that whole step forward and say the perp's line thing." He pitches his voice low, trying to sound menacing, "'Gimme all your money or the little dog gets it.'"

Ryan stares at him with wide eyes, his hand inching closer to the gun clipped on his hip. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Sorry. I tend to get a little overexcited sometimes. I'm a writer," he laughs, as if that explains it.

"Castle." Esposito strides up, tossing a file onto his desk. "What are you doing here?"

"I - uh," Rick stammers as Esposito stares at him, his mouth set in a hard line. "I called a couple of times this morning about - you know. The thing. You didn't answer and I figured time was of the essence so -" He trails off, shrugging his shoulders.

Esposito gives him a terse nod. "Come with me."

Rick follows behind him, trying to control himself, to not spin in circles as he walks, gawking at everything they pass. He has to bite back a gleeful gasp when Esposito leads him into a small interrogation room at the end of a long hallway and shuts the door.

"This is so cool," he whispers, eyes scanning over the sterile room with its grimy walls and metal table.

Esposito glares at him. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing," he says, trying to compose himself. "Look, I'm sorry I just showed up but you didn't answer when I called and I figured I'd have to come down here at some point in the process so I just -"

"There's not going to be a process," Esposito interrupts in a tight voice. "We don't need the money anymore."

"What? Why?"

"Coonan's dead."

"Coonan's dead," Rick parrots, his mood shifting in an instant.

"Guards found him in the cell this morning with a slit throat."

Shit.

"So definitely not natural causes, then."

Esposito's lip twitches up in something resembling a smirk. "No."

"Do they know what happened? Who did it?"

"Cameras were disabled."

Disappointment flows through him, washing out any remnants of his earlier excitement. So close; they were so close. _She_ was so close.

"Does Kate know?"

"Yeah," Esposito nods. "I called her as soon as I could."

Rick takes a few steps across the room, a sudden restlessness taking over his body. There has to be something else they can do. Some other way to find this Rathborne. Maybe they missed a clue in the files, maybe there's a pattern they didn't see, didn't look hard enough for. They can't walk away from this now. He can't walk away from it. Can't walk away from her.

He reaches the end of the tiny room and turns, pacing back toward Esposito. "What do we do now?"

"What _you_ do is go home."

"But -"

"Look, man, I appreciate that you want to help," Esposito says, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he takes a step toward Rick, "but you're not a cop. There's nothing you can do here. I have to work this through the proper channels if we want to have a shot at getting anything out of it. I can't have you hanging around here and poking around."

Rick stares him down for a long moment, the urge to argue thrashing in his chest. He can't be idle on this, can't just sit back and see what happens.

"Just go home, Castle."

He nods.

Esposito opens the door and ushers him out, pointing him toward the elevators before heading back to his desk. Rick leaves the precinct quickly, determination urging him along as he jogs down the sidewalk to the nearest subway entrance.

Home is the last place he's going right now.

* * *

Kate sits on the floor in front of her closet, knees pulled up to her chest, eyes focused on the back wall. On her murder board. The blank spaces seem to expand the longer she stares, the distance between her meager amount of facts growing, stretching the thin links between them until they snap. Until the pieces don't fit anymore.

Blood drips onto her right foot, the broken skin on her knuckles still weeping. She lost control after the call from Espo, throwing her phone across the room before swinging at the wall, her fist slamming through the aged sheetrock. White dust still coats her hand, sticking to the open wounds along her fingers.

Hot tears leak from the corners of her eyes but she makes no move to wipe them away, lets them fall on her raised knees, soak into the thin material of her yoga pants. She doesn't know how much more of this she can take. How much more disappointment and anger she can pile on her shoulders before she collapses under the weight.

Solving her parents murders has been the driving force behind every decision she's made for more than ten years. She switched schools, moved across the country, changed majors; she altered the entire course of her life.

No.

Whoever murdered her parents altered it, not her. She made the only decisions she could, the only ones that made any sense. The only ones that gave her life a sense of purpose. Two steps. That's all her plan has ever hand. Figure out who is behind it and make them pay. Two steps. It's not supposed to be this hard.

One solid lead in a decade of searching. One. And now it's gone, bled out on the concrete floor of a holding cell. She wants to rail about the injustice, rant about how it's unfair to have this dangled in front of her only to be ripped away at the last moment. But she gave up on justice and fairness years ago. All she has now is a creeping coldness in her chest, slowly smothering the fire that's been fueling her for longer than she wants to think about.

A sharp rap echoes through the front door and Kate jerks, her hands falling to the floor as her body rocks. Pain arcs through her hand when she presses herself up off the floor, moving quietly to the kitchen. She slides the sword from its sheath, wishing like hell it was a gun in her hand instead.

Slowly, she inches toward the door, stepping lightly on the balls of her feet. The door shakes when the knock sounds again, louder and harder. Hissing softly, Kate tightens her injured hand around the sword, preparing herself. If they're coming after her, she's not going down without a fight.

"Kate. Kate, open the door."

She sighs, letting the sword fall gently against her thigh. Castle knocks again, each rap more forceful than the last, and she walks to the door, calling out to him. "Stop banging, Castle. I'm coming."

He doesn't hesitant to step through the door when she pulls it open. "Why aren't you answering your phone?"

Kate points to the bits of plastic and circuitry scattered across the floor.

"Oh," Castle says, embarrassment seeping in around the edges of his panic. "Well, I guess that's why it keeps going straight to voicemail."

"That would explain it." Kate walks back toward the kitchen, slipping the sword back into the sheath. "Why were you banging on my door, Castle?"

"I - I was worried about you. I went to the precinct and saw Esposito and he told me what happened and then sent me home but I decided to come here instead and I tried to call you and it went straight to voicemail and I panicked. I thought someone had gotten to you or -" The rapid fire speech tapers off as he runs out of breath, his chest lifting as he inhales deeply.

"And you thought beating down my door and yelling my name was the best way to play the hero and rescue me from the big bad wolf?"

"I -"

"Forget it, Castle. It's fine," she says, lacking the energy or desire to argue with him. Kate drops down on the couch, cradling her knees to her chest once again and turning her head to watch him. He bounces lightly on his heels and her heart beats a little faster, the realization that she's the reason for the panic that lingers in his eyes making her ribs hitch.

She says his name softly, trying to draw his attention without startling him. He looks down at her and she offers him a small smile, waving her hand toward the other end of the couch. "Sit".

He doesn't. Instead he squats down next to her, taking her hand gently between his own. She tries not to react to the touch, not to feel the spark of electricity when he brushes his thumb over the back of her hand, just above her split knuckles. "What happened?"

"It's nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing," he says, looking up at her with a tenderness in his eyes that she pretends not to see.

"Had a little disagreement with the wall."

"And lost, apparently."

Kate smiles at him, her fingers curling around his palm without her permission. "You should see the other guy. I did some damage."

"I have no doubt." Squeezing her hand gently, he lets her go and stands. "First aid kit in the same place?"

She nods and lays her cheek down on her knees, closing her eyes and listening to him rummage through her cabinets. The refrigerator door closes with a hiss and then he's next to her again, the bag of bandages in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

Castle sits down on the middle cushion, his thigh brushing against her toes. He pulls a bottle of ibuprofen out of the bag, shaking two into his palm. "Here," he says, holding out his hand, "take these."

Her nails scrape lightly over his skin when she gathers the pills into her fingers and Castle presses his lips together, eyes fluttering shut for just a few seconds too long. Holding back a smile, Kate swallows the pills, taking a few extra sips of the water before screwing on the cap and dropping next to her hip on the cushion.

Castle finishes rummaging through the bag and takes her hand in his again. Gently, he cleans her knuckles, wiping the dried blood and sheetrock dust off with a sure hand. Warmth radiates up her arm, spreading into her chest and abdomen, and she stops fighting it, lets her body relax into the feeling of being touched, being cared for.

"We should buy stock in antiseptic and gauze companies," Castles says, dabbing antibiotic ointment onto her knuckles. "We'd make a fortune."

"Don't you already have a fortune?"

He laughs. "A small one, yes."

Castle places a bandage over her knuckles, smoothing his fingers across her hand more than is strictly necessary. She doesn't say anything, doesn't pull away. He runs his thumb over the back of her hand one last time, smiling as he lets her go. "I'd give you a sucker for being such a good patient but it seems I'm fresh out."

Kate huffs, digging her toes into his thigh. "Shut up."

Slowly, his smile slips into a frown, the teasing light going out of his eyes. "I'm sorry about Coonan."

"It's okay," she whispers, pulling her knees a little closer to her chest. "It was a long shot anyway."

"Kate."

"Let it go, Castle. There's nothing we can do about it now."

"Maybe there is," he insists, leaning closer to her until she can feel the heat of his chest against her shins. "Maybe we missed something in the files."

"We didn't miss anything."

"How do you know?"

"Because there's nothing there," she says, voice rising. "I've been over those files so many times that I have most of them memorized. If there was anything there, anything at all, don't you think I would have found it by now?"

Kate takes a deep breath, her breasts pressing hard against her thighs. She knows he's just trying to help, trying to do what he can for her. But he hasn't been doing this for as long as she has. He didn't get written up for sneaking into the records room as a rookie, hasn't stayed up for days on end pouring over the same damn details again and again, desperately searching for clues. He hasn't thrown his entire life away over the relentless need for revenge.

"Okay," he says, wrapping a tentative hand around her ankle. "Maybe the files are a bust. But there has to be something somewhere, right? It's out there, Kate. We just have to find it."

"I've been searching for over ten years and I'm no closer than I was during the first."

"But you didn't have me."

A laugh bubbles up in her chest. "Really? You?"

"Yes. Me."

Kate reaches out with her good hand, presses her fingers against his forearm. "You don't have to do this. This isn't your fight, Castle."

"Maybe not but I'm involved now and there's no way I'm letting you kick me out." He smiles at her, fingers tightening around her ankle. "Face it. You're stuck with me."

"You're really not gonna let this go, are you?"

"Not a chance."

Kate sighs. "Okay."

Castle's face lights up, a spark of childlike glee flashing in his eyes. "Now that we have that settled, where do we start?"

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated. _


	17. Chapter 16

Castle's hand, large and warm, settles on her thigh, stilling the nervous jerk of her knee. Kate takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly and forces herself not to pull back from him, not to yank her leg out of his reach. Not to unlatch the seat belt tethering her down, open the door and leap.

"Kate," he says, low voice bleeding into the soft edges of the night, "are you okay?"

"I'm fine." She consciously relaxes the muscles under his palm, transfers the tension to her hands, tying her fingers into knots she's not certain will ever come undone. "I just don't like cars." It's not the whole truth and she knows he knows it but he lets it go and Kate feels the weight on her chest lighten a few ounces.

She's still getting used to that. To the idea that he - he makes things better. Used to the way she feels when she's with him. That she _wants_ to be near him, to feel the warmth of his presence and the comfort of his touch. She wants him in her life and she has no idea what to do with that.

He shifts his grip on the steering wheel but leaves his other hand on her leg, thumb rubbing slowly back and forth over the ridge of her kneecap. They drive in silence for a few minutes, the sound of tires on asphalt filling the car with a low hum. She listens to it, tries to let it drown out the panicked thump of her heart.

"How do you usually get up here if you don't drive?"

Castle's fingers tighten around her leg when she jumps at the sound of his voice. It takes her a moment to find her own, to pull in a breath deep enough to force the words out of her lungs. "I really don't come here much," she says, "but when I do - I ride my bike."

"How the hell did I forget that you have a motorcycle?"

Kate hears the faint note of glee in his voice and gives in to the smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

"That is so hot," he breathes, his hand slipping just a little higher up her thigh. "Is it one of those tiny Kawasakis? No," he answers his own question, shaking his head, "you're not a crotch rocket kind of girl." She chokes on a laugh and Castle looks over at her, mouth slanted in a grin. "That didn't sound as dirty in my head."

Kate hums, lips pressed tightly together to hold back a smile. "And just what kind of a girl do you think I am, Castle?"

"A Harley girl," he says, the words sharp and decisive. "You definitely have a Harley."

"Why?"

"Because it's classic. It's what a motorcycle should be. Powerful, badass, sexy; like you."

"Did you seriously just compare me to a motorcycle?"

"Maybe a little?"

He sounds like a kid with his hand caught in a cookie jar and Kate laughs lightly, untangling her fingers. "Relax, Castle," she says, patting the back of his hand. She lingers, the tips of her fingers hooking around the side of his palm. Neither of them acknowledge it. "It is a Harley. '94 Softail."

"Please tell me it's red and blue to match your suit. _Please_."

"Sorry to ruin your fantasy but it's black."

"But that's the beauty of a fantasy, Kate. Reality has absolutely no bearing. In my head, your bike is red and blue and you ride it while wearing -"

"Stop talking."

He laughs but obeys. Kate turns to look out the window again, her cheek brushing against the rough edge of the seat belt. The warmth of Castle's hand grounds her, gives her something solid to focus on, a thin layer of protection against the creeping cold of her past. She's hasn't been up here in years but the road is still painfully familiar, every mile littered with a dozen different memories.

The reflective tape of a road sign flashes in the high beam of the headlights and Kate closes her eyes against the glare. She doesn't need a sign to tell her where she is, to be aware that she's just over two miles away from the last physical connection she has with her parents. An involuntary shiver skitters down her spine and Castle flips his hand over, laces his fingers through hers.

"This exit?" He asks in a gentle voice that makes her want to curl into his side, let him drape over her like a blanket, a cover for the aching pit opening in the middle of her chest.

He flicks on the blinker at her nod and they pull off the highway, turning onto the pitted and cracked dirt road that leads to the cabin. Memories assault her, slamming into her chest and ripping off pieces of her hide, leaving her exposed and raw. Kate's free hand fists on her thigh and she concentrates on her breathing, counting to ten on each inhale, trying to control the riotous thump of her heart.

Every time hurts just as much as the last. It's why she stopped coming up here. Why she locked the windows and doors, the memories stuffed hastily inside, and walked away. It was too much for her. Still is.

Kate inhales sharply when they round the final bend and Castle's hand tightens around hers, the pads of his fingers pressing hard against her skin. She watches the headlights fall across the front of the cabin, dull against the grimy windows. The gutters droop and the front porch sags in the middle and for just a moment she sees it; sees the house smiling at her, welcoming her back after far too long.

Castle slides his hand from hers and shifts the car into park, shutting it off with a smooth twist of his wrist. The chirp of crickets replaces the hum of the engine and she closes her eyes in a slow blink, unfurling her fingers and reaching for the door handle.

Leaves crunch under her boots as she walks around to the front of the car, the heat of the still ticking engine seeping through her jeans. Castle comes to stand beside her, the backs of his knuckles brushing against her thigh.

"You okay?"

Kate gives him a breathy laugh. "You gotta stop asking me that, Castle." She sees him nod out of the corner of her eye and leans to the side, knocking her shoulder against his. "Let's go."

The porch creaks when they mount the steps, the age softened boards springy under her feet. She digs the keys out of her pocket and Castle clicks on one of the flashlights, aiming it at the door. The knob sticks when she twists it, the rusted brass rough against her fingers. Pressing her shoulder to the wood, Kate turns the handle and pushes, stumbling when the door gives, opening on a loud pop.

Musty air fills her lungs and she coughs, taking the flashlight Castle holds out for her, sweeping the beam around the room. Boxes line two walls, the cardboard dusty and sun bleached. Kate stands rooted to the spot, heart hammering in her chest. She can feel Castle's presence behind her, his slow breaths brushing over her shoulder.

"What are we looking for?"

She's oddly proud of herself for not jumping at the sound of his voice this time.

* * *

They sit on the plastic covered couch, boxes scattered around their feet. Rick watches her in his periphery, tries not to be overt in his observation. When she'd told him about this place, her father's fishing cabin, he'd felt that familiar burst of eagerness zip down his spine, the anticipatory thrill of learning more about her blooming hot in his chest.

Guilt had quickly extinguished the flame. He shouldn't be excited about this. Not when it was painfully obvious that it was going to hurt her. That diving back into her past, no matter how vital the evidence she might uncover, was the last thing she wanted to do.

He's trying. Trying to be supportive without smothering, trying to be encouraging without annoying. He thinks he's getting better at reading her the more time they spend together but her moods are still mercurial, shifting without warning. The softness in her eyes can turn to steel in the space of a breath, the rigid set of her shoulders can relax in the time it takes him to say her name.

He doesn't know how to predict her.

Is fairly certain he never will.

Rick slides the lid back onto the box he's been rifling through for the past five minutes, pushing it away with a sigh. "You couldn't have labeled these damn things?"

Kate chuckles half-heartedly, the beam from the flashlight cradled in the crook of her elbow wobbling across the floor. "I wasn't really concerned with creating a comprehensive storage system at the time. I just -"

She hesitates and Rick forces himself to remain quiet and motionless, to let her sort the words and emotions out for herself. As much as he wishes he could do this for her, could spare her the heartache, he knows he can't. All he can do is sit as close to her as she'll allow and pull the lid off another box.

"I just needed it to be over," she finishes a minute later, switching to another box. "I spent weeks going through the house, deciding what to keep or sell or donate. Everything - it all hurt. Packing up their clothes for charity, doling out knick-knacks and mementos to their friends. It took six months to sell the house and by the time it was done -"

"So were you," he finishes, unable to stop the words from tumbling out.

"Yeah." Kate nods, running her fingers over the row of books in the box she's just opened. "I threw it all into boxes and drove it up here in a rented truck. I didn't really care anymore."

That's a lie and they both know it.

"You didn't have anyone to help you?"

"Not really. My dad's firm helped me with the legal things. Wills, life insurance, selling the house. But the rest of it was up to me. My parents were both only children and all my grandparents were gone by that time so - I was the only one."

The tightness in his chest chokes him and he fights for breath, tries to control the shaking in his hands. Thinking about her at nineteen, grieving and alone, crushes his heart, makes him want to pull her into his arms and not let go. No one should have to do that by themselves but especially not her.

Not her.

Kate takes one of the books out of the box, her fingers running over the broken spine. She leans into the corner of the couch, pulling her legs up and resting the book on the ramp of her thighs. The sound of her nails scraping over the edges of the pages combines with the chirp of the crickets in a weird sort of melody and Rick closes his eyes, listens to the music.

Her whisper takes him by surprise.

"This was my mom's favorite book. To Kill a Mockingbird. She said it was what made her want to be a lawyer." Kate huffs out a tiny laugh and shakes her head. "My dad made fun of her for it all the time. Told her it was a cliche to claim it as a favorite, to cite it as the inspiration for a career in law. I don't think I ever saw her angrier than the time he told her Atticus Finch was a piss poor excuse for a lawyer."

"Not even when you snuck off to Mardi Gras and ended up topless?"

He thinks she smiles but can't tell through the shadows.

"If she'd ever found out about the topless part, that might have topped it. But, no. Not even then. He slept on the couch for three nights after that Atticus comment."

"He deserved it, besmirching the good name of Atticus Finch like that," Rick says, leaning back and letting the flashlight drop down next to his thigh.

He wishes he could see her, could watch the memories play across her face, but he's almost certain that if there were more light, if she were exposed to his naked perusal, they wouldn't be talking this way. _She_ wouldn't be talking.

There's security in the dark, a sense of freedom. Words slip out easily and blend into the blackness, gone almost as soon as they're spoken. The night forgives; the shadows receptive and silent, a safe haven for secrets too delicate for the harsh light of day.

They sit in silence, Kate running her fingers over the cover of the book, smoothing out the curling corners. Rick watches her, waiting.

"What if I can't find the answers? The justice they deserve? What if I never solve it?"

Scooting down the couch, he reaches for her, can't stand not touching her anymore. Not when she sounds so lost and broken, her fear spilling out and making him ache. He lays a gentle hand on her wrist, stroking his fingers over her skin.

"You'll solve it, Kate."

She scoffs. "You don't know that. It's been over ten years and I have nothing. _Nothing_. This -" she waves her hand around the room - "isn't going to just magically give me all the answers I need."

"No, it won't. But it's a place to start. We look here and if we don't find it, we look somewhere else. We'll keep going until we get there."

"And if we don't?"

He slides his hand up to her elbow and tugs her closer. She lets him wrap his arm around her back and gather her up, cradle her against his chest. She grips the book with one hand, curling the fingers of the other into the front of his shirt, her forehead pressed to the side of his neck.

"You're not alone in this anymore," he breathes, lips pressed to her crown. "We're going to figure it out. Together."

Rick closes his eyes, concentrates on the way her body feels pressed against his; the heat of her seeping through his clothes, the light breeze of her breath across his neck. She relaxes in increments, her body slowly loosening and sinking into his. He takes her weight willingly, one hand stroking her waist and the other cupping the side of her head as he presses his mouth to her hair, fills his lungs with her.

"Thank you," she murmurs, her lips grazing his skin so softly that he thinks maybe he imagined it. "For this. For - everything."

"You don't have to thank me, Kate. I'm here because I want to be."

She looks up at him, her hand releasing his shirt and smoothing slowly over his chest. He tries to read her face but the shadows are too deep, the night too dark. Her thumb dips into the hollow of his throat, fingers curling lightly at the side of his neck. Brushing his index finger along the sharp line of her jaw, Rick lowers his head.

Their lips meet softly, a tentative graze that has him immediately craving more. He needs to taste her. Now. Kate parts her lips and he accepts the invitation, pulling her into a deeper kiss, holding her close with a hand curved around her neck. She kisses him back, mouth warm and open, tongue sliding against his. Her teeth graze his bottom lip when she slides her hand up the back of his neck and into his hair, nails scraping over his scalp and pulling a groan from low in his chest.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," Rick sighs, breaking the kiss and resting his forehead against hers.

"I know," she says, her fingers still running through his hair. "Me too."

He kisses her again for that, lips and tongue demanding. She gives back with a matching intensity, her breasts pressing against his ribs as she stretches up into him. Rick slips his hand under the hem of her shirt, the pads of his fingers running over the velvety skin at the dip of her waist, and Kate hums out a moan, her hand fisting at the back of his head. She pulls away from him with a smack, breath coming in ragged pants.

"We have to stop."

Rick skims his hand along her side, smiling when she shivers. "Why?"

"Because we came here to find the files from my parents' office, not make out on a couch covered in protective plastic."

"We can do both," he says, brushing his lips across her forehead. "I'm very good at multitasking."

Kate presses a hand to his chest and pushes. He loosens his hold so she can slide away from him, missing the feel of her as soon as she's gone. "Files now," she says, picking up her flashlight and sliding the the book back into its box.

"Kissing later?" He asks, trying to play the neediness in his voice off as humor.

Kate looks over at him and he can just make out the curve of her smile. "If you're good."

Rick laughs, moving back down to the other end of the couch and grabbing his flashlight. "Trust me, Kate," he says, leaning over to dig through the open box he'd abandoned, "you have no idea just how good I can be."

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Your thoughts and comments are always appreciated. _


End file.
